


a rose by any other name (would kill me just as quick)

by Setkia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, COMMUNICATE BOYS, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Pining, flower shop au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-09-30 02:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setkia/pseuds/Setkia
Summary: “So … yeah … I … well, I fell in love with somebody I wasn’t supposed to, and now I’m coughing up bloody petals.”It sounds so ridiculous when he says it that way.A newer, better version of "a crimson bouquet"





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> A few things to note:  
> Everything is canon, except Iwaizumi went to Shiratorizawa, and has never met Oikawa. They are in their first year of university, going to different schools.  
> Karasuno students are in their 2nd year.  
> Hanahaki works as follows according to my own story: it doesn't matter if you're feelings are ACTUALLY unrequited, so long as you perceive them to be unrequited, you are in danger of getting hanahaki.  
> POV switches are common, the way you know they're happening is when the narrator is referred by their first name.  
> Updates will be twice a month, on Mondays normally.

Iwaizumi Hajime wakes up to sunlight streaming in through his open curtains. Feeling well rested and calm, he walks to the bathroom, yawns at his reflection in greeting, and starts his morning routine.

After turning on the shower, he heads to the kitchen to start brewing coffee while the water heats up. His procrastinating soul keeps him from buying the new coffee machine he desperately needs. Maybe he’ll get it today. He doesn’t have any other plans. 

By now, the shower is warm enough to get into, so he disrobes and hums a stupid jingle he can’t quite get out of his head as he washes, before getting out, wrapping a towel around his body, and wiping the foggy mirror clean. He tries to tame his hair as best as he can, before going into the kitchen and picking up his ready coffee, filled up to just the right amount.

He takes a sip, his brain beginning to come online.

Upon finishing the cup, he brushes his teeth and rinses his mouth.

It’s a Saturday, which means no classes, not that his schedule is particularly gruelling, but still. Every university student likes a break, don’t they?

Opening his closet, he can hear his mother in the back of his mind, reprimanding him for his terrible fashion sense—

_Shit._

He’s forgetting something. Something important. Something _very_ important. 

As Hajime forces his legs into his jeans, despite being still wet, the fabric clinging to him and fighting him every inch of the way (he _knows_ there’ll be chaffing), he reaches out for his phone which falls to the floor.

A reminder flashes across the screen. 

_Lunch w/ Mom (don’t forget the present)_

It’s 10:45.

_This is why you set alarms, dumbass!_

He could’ve sworn he did. Or did he dream that? He hates when dreams and reality get all fucked up in his head, leading to these inconveniences.

Putting on a nice(ish) shirt, he bathes himself in cologne. Showing up in a less than perfect condition will surely be taken as a sign he has to move back in with her. He’s been on his own for two months, and while it’s harder than anticipated, it’s freeing. He _cannot_ go back to mooching off her wi-fi.

Grabbing the keys to his car, he sprints to the elevator, nearly forgetting his wallet before deciding fuck it, he can afford to run down the stairs, he’s a volleyball player for fuck’s sake, he’s got the stamina. He makes it to the front door when someone opens it and his coffee spills all over him.

Hajime doesn’t have time to go back up, so he curses and prays there are some napkins in his glove compartment. Hopefully the air freshener in the car will mask the scent of caffeine (he already knows it won’t). 

He gets into the parking garage and pulls too forcefully at the car door, letting out a wince as his elbow smacks against the door of the one parked next to him. Someone says something in greeting, but Hajime just waves at them in a motion that kind of looks like the universal signal for “there’s a bug in my face I am attempting to murder”, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that.

Making his way out of the underground parking lot, he taps on his steering wheel irritably.

_(don’t forget the present)_

It’s his mother’s birthday, and he hasn’t got the slightest idea what she’d want. Whenever asked about it, her response is “you’re the only gift I need”, which, while sweet, _so isn’t_ what he needs right now. 

_You had one job._ **_Only one._ ** _And you fucked it up._

The age old question what women want has no answers, and he doubts that the answer will fall from the sky for some nineteen year old wing spiker who is in desperate need of a birthday gift. The world’s cruel like that. 

As he drives along to the meeting place they agreed upon (which he learns after a quick check through his text history), a small shop in the corner of his eye catches his attention.

He’s stopping the car on the side of the road without a second thought, just barely hitting the brakes in time. He’s lucky there aren’t any police officers around (the small mercies of life). 

Nearly tripping over his feet, he opens the store door, ignoring the light tinkling sound of the bell that announces his arrival.

He’s out of breath, and pretty sure it’s because he’s bordering on an actual panic attack, but he uses what little breath he has to say:

“I NEED FLOWERS!”

Huh. Turns out his lungs have more air than he thought.

There’s silence, and then—

The man standing behind the counter is laughing at him. Hair like some sort of Disney prince, and begging to be touched, his caramel eyes are practically _sparkling_. Dressed in a plain shirt and apron with a name tag Hajime _knows_ has words on it, but his scrambled brain can’t muster up the power to read, he’s perfect.

He’s making some witty remark about how, if Hajime is in need of flowers, he’s come to the right place, seeing as this _is_ a flower shop, but he can’t hear it above the one thought running through his mind— 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

The moment the words leave his lips, he’s a tomato.

This is awkward. This _very_ awkward, and he would very much like the ground to swallow him please and thank you.

Beautiful Boy looks stunned, because of course he does, a complete stranger just sexually harassed him. Then a smirk takes over his features.

“You're not so bad yourself.”

Fuck him. He’s got the voice of an angel.

“Now that we’ve traded compliments, want to tell me the occasion that requires flowers? Perhaps an apology to your girlfriend for hitting on someone else?”

“Don’t have a girlfriend,” he says, which is better than saying he needs a bouquet for his and Beautiful Boy’s wedding, but not by much. 

“Oh?” the boy asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Birthday,” Hajime chokes out, his breathing irregular for an entirely new reason that’s humiliating to think about too much. “Mom’s birthday.”

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Did not.” He’s not pouting. Shut up, he _isn’t_.

Beautiful Boy laughs. Hajime takes a step closer, like he’s being pulled on some sort of string. He can read the name tag now that his brain has stopped short-circuiting completely. 

_Oikawa._

“Just give me something cheap,” he says, because as beautiful as Beautiful Boy is (and he’s _very_ beautiful, it’s in the name, see?), he’s got an appointment with his mother, who may become his maker in a completely different way if he turns up empty handed. 

“Hmm? Cheap? Is that all your mother is to you?” asks Beautiful Boy (Oikawa). 

“Huh? I mean, no, obviously—”

“You can’t give her a meaningless bouquet,” says the florist. “Where’s the point in that?”

“I mean—”

“You poor boy.”

“Um …”

“I’ve got just the thing, so don’t you worry your pretty little head,” says Beautiful Boy with a wink. He heads to the back, and Hajime stands frozen, unsure of what to do with himself, or how to process the fact that his head has just been called pretty. 

Trying to pass the time and anxiety, Hajime looks around himself. The shop is fairly small, and has a cozy atmosphere. He can see himself taking a seat somewhere and doing his homework. It feels calm. A place with as many scents as this little hidden gem of comfort would trigger a headache, but he finds it oddly pleasant. He may just come back another time, that is, if his mother doesn’t decapitate him for being tardy to lunch (and he _will_ be late, he just knows it). Perhaps Beautiful Boy will make the arrangement for his funeral. 

Said boy comes out from the back with a bouquet of pink flowers. “Here you go,” he says, “Pink carnations, to symbolize a love of a mother. Or for a mother. Something like that.”

Amongst the pink petals, Hajime notices a deep purple. “What’s that one called?”

“Huh?”

“That one,” he says, pointing.

Oikawa’s eyes widen. “That? Oh, you don’t want that,” he says, dusting the purple off the tops of the flora. It falls to the ground, and he squashes it underneath his foot

Hajime frowns. “You alright?”

“Perfect, and you?” There’s something off about his smile. Glancing at the clock, he hums. “Better hurry. That’ll be 15 00 yen.”

Hajime fumbles for his wallet, whistle Oikawa whistles at his misery. He hands over some bills, the boy handing him the arrangement in exchange. Their fingers brush slightly, freezing former vice-captain to the spot.

“Get going,” says the brunet with a laugh, shooing him towards the door.

“Ah. Right. Um. Thanks.”

“It’s my job.”

The florist’s fingers are touching his shoulder lightly, guiding him towards the exit. Hajime’s body is trying to overheat itself, while his heart attempts to jump out of his chest. 

He’s left standing outside with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, given to him by an even more beautiful boy, speechless.

Suddenly, his phone rings, jarring him out of his trance-like state.

“Hajime, where are you?”

_Shit._

Well, back to reality. 

  
Oikawa Tōru watches in amusement as the young man starts talking rapidly on the phone, making his way to his car, bouquet in hand.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t bad looking. With tanned skin, and those eyes … never mind those biceps, Tōru may have been swept away if it weren’t for— _best not think about that._

Turning back to the task at hand, he forces down the itching feeling in his throat at the sight of the stupid flower. Though stomped on, it’s still undoubtably beautiful.

To think, a flower seller who hates flowers.

He would laugh, if he thought he could. If he wasn’t terrified a thorn would pierce his throat on the way up and cut out his vocal chords


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> “Are you seriously buying the guy _cold_ _medicine_?”
> 
>  
> 
> Hajime regrets calling his friend.

“I didn’t know people got flowers for walking their dog.”

_What the fuck is he doing?_

Hajime will pay anyone who could give him an answer, though he doesn’t have much. In the two weeks since his first visit, he’s stopped by once every three days, slowly by slowly draining his wallet. At this rate, he’ll have to start worrying about his rent. Asking for money is humiliating enough, without the whole “reason I’m broke is there’s a hot guy who works with flowers” angle.

“Eh, well, he needs the encouragement.” Rubbing his neck nervously, he wonders if he’s sweating through his shirt.

Flower Boy— Oikawa, laughs. Hajime can only muster a shy grin.

His mind chastises him for being a fucking idiot, and yet it hasn’t deterred him from coming into the flower shop with a plethora of pathetic excuses he’s sure the brunet sees right through. 

This is getting pathetic. He’s not in high school anymore, he should be able to say coherent sentences around the man without sounding like a complete doofus. Though, to be fair, he doesn't have much experience with this sort of thing, having only one ex to name, and he’s pretty sure those three dates were out of pity since he had a panic attack within the first three sentences of the confession (shōjō manga makes it look much easier than it is, okay?). 

Why does he even like the man? He’s never thought of himself as shallow enough to be consumed by someone’s looks, but he doesn’t know anything else about the brunet beyond superficial things. He’s a normal person. Who just so happens to look like a supermodel. That’s all there is to it.

This is getting ridiculous. His next excuse he’s got lined up is about a cousin who is four months pregnant with twins, even though everyone thought she was infertile. He can’t just come up with normal excuses, like brother’s birthday or good results on a test, or anything that doesn’t make him sound like a total weirdo.

_Just ask him. Worst case scenario, you can never show your face in town again._

The flimsy excuses are not going to work for much longer. He’s not even sure they’re working _now_. Either he asks him and gets rejected, or he somehow manages to form a sentence that sounds somewhat like “hey, how do you feel about friendship?”. Now if only his tongue would get with the program.

“Hey, Oikawa-san?”

“I know about your mother entering menopause, I think you can drop the san.”

“Ah. Right.” He forgot about that lie. “I was just wondering … er, do you uh, well I mean, you know a lot about me, so why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

Oikawa rests his chin on his hands, leaning closer. “Hmm? What do you want to know?”

“I dunno …” He does know. But he can’t very well start with “You got anyone you like?”.

Judging by the way Oikawa’s eyes widen, his fingers nearly dropping the ribbon he’s using to tie up the bouquet, he just did.

_Well, there’s no going back now._

“Oh, um …” There’s something wrong with his voice.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

He doesn’t sound fine.

“Are you getting sick?” asks Hajime, his brow furrowing. Is he working while he’s ill?

“Something like that.” Oikawa grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It comes so naturally, it makes him sick to think of how many times he must’ve practiced it that he’s able to do it with such ease. “Here you go, Iwa-chan.”

“Thanks.”

Hajime pays, and walks out. 

He doesn’t miss the way Oikawa coughs, though the brunet tries to stifle it. 

  
“Are you seriously buying the guy _cold_ _medicine_?”

Hajime regrets calling his friend.

“He looked under the weather—”

“And that’s your cue to stock up on Tylenol?” 

“Well, no, but—”

“You never buy me stuff when I’m sick—”

“It’s not like you’d let me—”

“Point is, you don’t do that type of thing. We’ve known each other for a year and we don’t do shit like this. You’ve known this guy for like, less than a month, and you’re going all mother-hen on his bedridden ass?”

He can’t really blame Kyoutani for his reaction. If someone sneezes, he tells them a polite “bless you”. When a teammate turns up looking run down, he advises they either go home and get better, or sit this practice out. He’s not the type to come knocking with chicken noodle soup in hand, and a picture book in tow. 

“It’s not like that,” says Hajime, even as part of him says it’s exactly that. “I’m used to looking after my mom, I guess instinct says I should help him? He seems … lonely. He’s always standing behind that counter,—”

“It’s his job!”

“But I’ve never seen anyone else in there! It’s like he does all the shifts himself. You don’t see his face. He’s always looking at me like he’s confused why I’m there—”

“ _I’m_ confused why you’re there. Do _you_ even know?” Kyoutani demands. “Either you grow some balls and ask him out, or you get the fuck out of there before he files a restraining order.”

It’s good advice, albeit given a little too harshly, but he can’t quite get himself to comply. He knows what he’s talking about, no matter what Kyoutani says. An unnatural sadness surrounds the florist.

“I’ll get around to it,” says Hajime dismissively. “I just think he needs someone.”

“Are you sure it’s not just your hormones? Maybe you’re so desperate to fuck him, you’ve convinced yourself he needs you.”

“Anyone ever told you’re a crude asshole, Kyoutani?”

“Every day, Iwaizumi-san.” He can hear the smirk across the line. “I’m just saying, you should find out whether he’s actually into guys before you get too devoted. Then again, considering the conversation we’re having—”

“Fuck off.”

“You’re whipped.”

“Am _not_.” Hajime stares at the price tags on the boxes. “Do you think he’d like Advil, or Ibuprofen?”

Kyoutani hangs up.

It doesn’t really bug him, it’s expected even, but it would’ve been nice to get an answer, since he ends up buying all of them. 

  
“What’s this?”

“A thing. For you.”

Oikawa stares at the bag in Hajime’s outstretched hand. 

“Is it our anniversary? I didn’t even realize! I feel horrible I don’t have anything for you—”

“Shut up and open the damn bag, Shittykawa.”

Oikawa blinks.

Hajime blinks.

_Oh shit._

He’s come to know some things about the florist over his short acquaintance with him. As pretty as he is, he’s kind of a piece of shit. No matter how good his ass looks, Oikawa’s teasing attitude and need for banter has earned him several unflattering nicknames in the confines of Hajime’s mind. Names he never intended on _actually saying to his face._

“Uh—”

Oikawa laughs, tossing his head back, cutting off his words and his brain simultaneously.“Whatever you say, Iwa-chan. What’d you get me?” He opens the bag with a grin, but suddenly freezes. “What’s this?”

This was stupid. What is he even doing? It’s not his job to worry over Oikawa, who is at _least_ Hajime’s age. That’s his mother’s, or girlfriend’s job. He should’ve listened to Kyoutani, but the brunet’s looking at him like he expects an actual answer so—

_You’ve made your bed. Lie in it._

“I just thought, you know, since you weren’t feeling well, maybe you needed some—” The more words come out of his mouth, the stupider he sounds. Clamping down on his teeth, he accidentally bites his tongue. Holding in a squeak of surprise, he tries to grab the bag from Oikawa’s hands, but the man’s holding on tightly.

“It’s mine now,” says Oikawa with a cheeky grin. “No take-backs!”

Hajime’s ears are burning. No matter how much dark his skin is, nothing can hide the blush that’s travelling down the back of his neck.

“Thanks for looking after me, Iwa-chan.” His teasing tone doesn’t match the intensity of his eyes.

The wing spiker teeters for a moment. “Right. No … no problem.”

“Anything else? Has someone saved another cat from a tree?”

It takes him a beat too long to realize he’s teasing him.

“No, maybe next week. I’ll be going now.”

Turning on his heel, he gives himself a metaphorical pat on the back for surviving his longest conversation with Oikawa ever, even if his whole face looks like a stop sign. It’s progress.

He’s at the door when he pauses.

Kyoutani’s words ring his head and he just knows if he doesn’t speak _right now_ , he’s never going to.

“Oikawa, I was wondering …” _Too late to back out now._ He forces his way through the sentence, even as his throat clamps up in protest. “Do you … I mean, have you … About boys …” He shuts his eyes and rips off the bandaid. 

“Oikawa, do you like boys?”

He turns around to find the counter empty.

Well, he’s never going to have the courage to ask that question again, so he supposes he’ll forever wonder.

  
Tōru clutches the convenience store bag to his chest, trying to fight back tears. 

It’s been so long since someone has taken care of him.

Akira is always busy with Takeru, not that he can’t blame her. Raising a child is not easy, even with her husband’s help. Besides, he shouldn’t _need_ her help, or Mom’s. He’s in university, he’s supposed to be independent. He _is_ , most of the time. But, like most things, he fakes it until he makes it. He’s so good at it, he even fools himself, and no one’s the wiser.

Except Iwaizumi.

Tōru shuts his eyes tightly. The bag crinkles against his chest, a reminder of how easily he was read by a complete stranger.

He knows Iwaizumi’s nervous. From what he’s managed to say, he’s got a pretty good idea of what his question will be. 

He wants to laugh at how loudly the question comes out, confirming his suspicions. It’s endearing.

So sincere. So blunt. So … so much like _Him_.

His chest twinges with the familiar ache and he doubles forward. He tries to keep them back, holding his breath, but it’s not working. He’s nearly choking in an attempt to force the itch back down his throat, but they come out anyway. His ribcage hurts from the dry heaving, and he spits and sputters as they fall out.

His fingers curl around them tightly, crushing them in his palm.

_“Oikawa, do you like boys?”_

_No._

_Just one._

_And it’s killing me._


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what’s funny?” Iwaizumi leans back in the infirmary chair. “I’ve told you about my neighbour’s dead dog, and yet I don’t have a fucking clue what your first name is.”

“Nice serve!”

Tōru’s heart stops mid-beat as his feet touch the court and he looks into the crowd.

_He’s_ here.

The knots in his stomach are getting annoying at this point, and holding his chest does nothing to stop him from choking, but the fabric beneath his fingers is grounding. Calming. He turns just in time to see his serve graze the top of the net, before falling to the ground, untouchable to all who dive for it.

The knowledge that _He’d_ do it better stops him from getting cocky when he sees the identical faces of disbelief on his teammates’ faces. 

Trying to shake out the nerves, he jumps around. He’s gotta burn off the excess energy, but keep the stamina. Life would be so much easier if the anxiety was just about his university debut, but he’s getting too old to lie to himself anymore.

So instead, he distracts himself and waits for his opponents to come.

The doors to the gym open.

_Hold up._

He knew Ushiwaka went to that university, but—

“Oikawa-san, watch out!”

The setter just barely manages to dodge the ball to the head.

“I’m so sorry! I thought you were paying attention! It’s my fault, I should’ve known—”

He pushes past the bumbling boy. He can worry about etiquette later. For now, he’s got some pressing questions for the opposition.

“Iwa-chan, you never told me you play volleyball.”

He watches amusedly as said-man gives himself whiplash, turning at the sound of Tōru’s voice. His eyes are as big as saucers. It’s kind of adorable.

“You never mentioned this,” he says in greeting, hoping his voice is teasing and not accusatory.

“Well, I mean, neither did you.”

“How’d your father’s promotion come up before clubs?”

Iwaizumi lets out a nervous chuckle. “Uh, dunno. What position do you play?”

“Setter. You?”

“Wing spiker.”

Suddenly, a boy with pinkish hair pops up, almost out of thin air. Tōru’s brows furrow in concern at the grip he’s got on Iwaizumi’s neck that seems to simulate choking.

“Oi, Iwaizumi-san, we’ve gotta warm up—” He freezes when he sees Tōru. For just a second, his expression flickers to surprise, before turning neutral. “Oikawa-san?”

“Yes …? You know who I am?”

The boy rolls his eyes, as if this is the stupidest question ever voiced aloud. “Hot _damn_ , Iwaizumi-san …” The player lets out a low, appreciative whistle. He doesn’t seem to notice the glare the wing spiker sends in warning. “I’d tap that if I were you. You doing anything later tonight?”

Tōru lets out a snort. “Smooth.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No, but this is. No.”

The pink-haired boy sighs dramatically, leaning against Iwaizumi for support. “Ah! How will my maiden heart ever recover from this tragedy?” He looks up at Iwaizumi through fluttering eyelashes. “Kiss me, fair prince!”

“Eat shit, Hanamaki.”

Tōru chuckles. “You moved on pretty fast.”

“Eh, you’re not my type anyway,” says the pink haired boy named Hanamaki. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re smoking, but I prefer darker hair.” For a moment, Tōru thinks he’s talking about the spiker, but Hanamaki turns his head and the setter sees another player with dark, somewhat curly hair, staring off into space with a bored expression.

“Gee, thanks.”

“No problem. I doubt you’re running short on compliments.” It takes him a while to turn his head back, but when he does, there’s a glint in his eye that makes him wish he was facing the other way. “Now listen here, Oikawa-san. I’d just like to make one thing clear. Iwaizumi-san over here, he’s a good guy. A bit rough, but I bet you like it that way. Despite his constant frown, he _does_ know how to have fun, when he doesn’t have a stick stuck up his ass—”

“Hanamaki!”

“Oh, c’mon Vice, I’m doing you a favour!” 

“Don’t listen to him—”

“Don’t ruin my fun,” whines Hanamaki. “The problem with Iwaizumi-san is he’s a bit … insensitive. And also, _very_ sensitive. Don’t ask me how, it’s all very confusing, but if you can accept that, I give you permission.”

He isn’t really be talking about what Tōru thinks he is, can he? 

“Permission for?”

“Permission to d—”

“Hanamaki, why don’t you go stretch with Matsukawa?”

“Oh no, don’t do that! I wanna talk to Maki about how I plan to deflower you, Iwa-chan.”

“Iwa-chan?” repeats Hanamaki. “Did he just call you—?” His sentence is cut off by his own laughter as he wipes at invisible tears from his eyes.

“Stretches, _now_!” Iwaizumi shoves his teammate forcibly in the opposite direction. His biceps are rather impressive, if Tōru’s being honest.

_A wing spiker. It shows._

He’s pretty sure Hanamaki sees him lick his lips, and is snickering at him.

“Sorry about him.” Iwaizumi throws a glare over his shoulder at his teammate, who seems to have moved on and is having fun with the dark haired boy he was staring at before, whispering into his ear.

“Vice?”

“I was vice-captain in high school.” He says it with a shrug, like it doesn’t even matter.

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Not really.” He’s not fishing for compliments. Tōru knows how people act when they want to inflate their own ego, he’s seen them do it enough times, hell, _he’s_ done it enough. There’s nothing but sincerity in his words.

“Bet you were the ace, weren’t you?”

“Nah, that was Ushijima.”

Ushijima. It takes him way too long to remember who that is. It may just be the first time he’s ever _forgotten_ about his biggest nemesis. Other than _Him,_ that is. His modesty makes sense though.

Ushijima Wakatoshi is a force to be reckoned with. It’s hard _not_ to feel inferior to him, which is what makes the lack of bitterness in his voice the most surprising. Tōru knows _he’d_ be bitter about, he still kind of is, and he’s never played on a team with him. Despite his serious, almost business-like approach to volleyball, he doesn’t think he could put his feelings aside to cooperate with the left-handed spiker. He’s glad he’s grown as a player without standing in Ushiwaka’s shadow, but he wonders what it had been like.

Iwaizumi's confidence in his own ability despite standing on the same court as the top university-level spiker in Japan probably makes him a better person. That he can withhold feelings of resentment to a player who so clearly steals the spotlight.

Tōru is kind of speechless.

A whistle blows.

“Uh, I’ve gotta go. Warm up and all.” The wing spiker rubs his neck awkwardly. He turns to leave, when he stops. “Good luck.”

The setter is so dumbstruck, he can’t even manage a “good luck” in return before Iwaizumi is swallowed by the rest of his team.

  
They’re going into overtime and Tōru is sweating through every second.

_26-25._

Tōru’s up to serve. If he fucks this up, Iwaizumi’s team wins, and he’ll be defeated by Ushiwaka yet _again_. 

Nothing will have changed from high school. 

He’s grown. He’s _different_. All those years spent training weren’t for nothing, and he wants the bastard to know it. Know that he’s _finally_ better than Ushijima Wakatoshi. 

He bounces the ball on the line, feeling the fabric beneath his palm. 

_One. Two. Three._

He tosses it above his head, jumps and swings.

_Shit._

There’s too much momentum. His body vaults forward, and his hand makes contact with the ball and then the floor. He’s on the ground, a burning sensation in his palm, and then his chin against the wood, his teeth knocking together.

This is nothing. He can walk this off.

He’s landed wrong. His knee is fucked up, yet again, but that’s not what bothers him.

It’s _Him._

It’s the look on His face in the stands. It’s the way He stands up and leaves, exiting the gymnasium, His footsteps echo like the final note in a symphony of mediocracy. 

It’s His back, walking away.

“Oikawa-san! Are you okay?”

He doesn’t hear the ref blow his whistle, though he knows it’s happened. Sitting up, he drags his leg closer. It scrapes against the floor wrong, and there’s blood in his mouth, but that hardly matters. 

It was a simple screw up. It’s not his fault.

He’s not _Him._

He makes mistakes. 

Spitting on the ground, blood mixes with saliva. No purple is in the mix, but it probably should be. It’s gloriously kind of the universe that he’s bleeding for the first time without any of those Goddamn—

Hands are on him, trying to get him to stand up. He pushes them away half-heartedly, flailing and laughing because it’s nice to bleed for something other than _Him_ , but his throat clenches at the thought and his luck’s run out.

He won’t be escaping this time without them.

He’s fine. He is, really.

Coughing into his hand, he feels the dry-heave in his chest.

They’re staring at him, watching. Ready to catch him if he so much as teeters to a particular side too much. Jokes on them, he’s already fallen.

He can’t get back up if the pain in his chest is anything to go by.

Tōru takes a step forward, as steady as a newborn calf, ready to walk it off, or at least hold off until he’s somewhere it’s safe, but he can’t.

_No. Not now. Please, not now._

He manages to keep them in, but at the cost of his legs.

  
Everything happens in slow motion. The fall, the screams, the ball hitting the ground on the wrong side of the net.

He feels Oikawa’s name tumble out of his mouth more than eh hears it, a whisper lost in the chaos that breaks out with the setter’s collapse. He can’t move, frozen until they lift him up and begin carrying him to the infirmary.

His team won. It barely registers.

He’s numb. It doesn’t make sense, because Hajime knows what he saw.

“Ah, isn’t that the player with the bad knee?”

“That’s some shit luck, huh?”

And he’s in motion, because he doesn’t know what else to do and the adrenaline is still coursing through him and _this shouldn’t be happening._

“Iwaizumi-san? Oi, where are you going?”

To Oikawa.

They should still be playing. It was a butchered serve.

He doesn’t pretend to know everything about the brunet, but he knows _that_ was not Oikawa.

The man’s a perfectionist. Always needs the best plays, the best serves, the best tosses.

He could’ve … but he _didn’t_.

“I’m going to check up on him,” Hajime yells over his shoulder, pushing his way through the crowd. This may affect his status as a regular (which is remarkable considering he’s a first year), but he’ll deal with the aftermath later because he’s only got one thing on his mind.

_Why did he fall?_

  
He left.

_He left._

The words become the soundtrack of Tōru’s world as the officials fuss over him. The nurse reprimands him and recommends some pain medication for his knee, but he can’t hear it. They ask about his medical history, any past injuries that are pertinent to today’s incident, but it’s all static.

_He left._

And Tōru’s failed once again.

He’s nineteen, not a baby, but he doesn’t have it in him to fight when they ask for information. He doesn’t have the energy to go on a tirade about his independence, or complain. He doesn’t speak unless directly spoken to.

He’s just numb.

_He left._

Curling his knees to his chest, he waits on the uncomfortable bed for someone to pick him up or however the procedure works.

_He left._

“Why?”

Something breaks through the static his world has become. 

The culprit is none other than Iwaizumi.

He’s so tired, _too_ tired. “Did I worry you, Iwa-chan?” he teases. There’s no heart in it, and the spiker can tell. He turns away. He’s not in the mood for pitying glances. “Shouldn’t you be playing?”

“We won.”

Of course. He can master it in practice, but when _He_ turns up, it all goes to shit.

He can never do anything right.

“Do you have a weak knee or something?”

“Or something.” He looks back at Iwaizumi, bracing himself for the sympathy he’ll see. What he finds instead is confusion.

“Um …” Tōru licks his lips. He’s not sure what to say.

“You _knew_ that toss was wrong, and you went for it anyway. Why?”

_How did he know?_

“You _knew_ it was going to fuck up your knee. Could’ve stopped it. But you didn’t.”

_Stop it._

“You let yourself fall, and then made it worse by dragging your leg back. You _knew_ it was going to hurt you.”

_You’re not supposed to know that._

“My only question is _why_?”

Tōru tries to muster up a laugh. It comes out sounding cold and bitter. “You give me too much credit, Iwa-chan. I just made a mistake.” He shrugs. “No big deal.”

It’s like he can see through the barriers he’s worked so hard to build up. It took a lifetime to get them as thick as they are, and now with one penetrating gaze, it all crumbles to dust. This _stranger_ is getting in past his defences, invading his fortress of solitude, and he’s helpless against him. He doesn’t like it. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He’s going to get to the heart of the castle and wipe out the feeble king of glass.

“You know what’s funny?” Iwaizumi leans back in the infirmary chair. “I’ve told you about my neighbour’s dead dog, and yet I don’t have a fucking clue what your first name is.”

Tōru blinks.

He was right there. Vulnerable and ready to be taken advantage of, to be ripped open for all the world to see his flaws and imperfections and everything he pretends isn’t real. And he’s _still_ here, in a poorly lit infirmary like it’s the closing scene of a Spanish novella.

“Tōru,” he says. “Oikawa Tōru.”

“Seems we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Oikawa Tōru. Name’s Iwaizumi Hajime.” He holds out his hand, like this is some sort of business deal. 

_What kind of nineteen year old shakes hands?_

He snorts. It feels more genuine than anything he’s done in the last six months.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking his hand.

Tōru doesn’t know what this is. He doesn’t know if he can even trust Iwaizumi Hajime, the man who sees through his defences like they’re made of cellophane. It terrifies him to his core, and it’s almost enough to make him forget about Him.

But not quite.

  
“Don’t you think it’s weird?”

“What?”

Shōyō supposes most people would feel uncomfortable standing next to an imposing figure like Kageyama Tobio but he feels safe. The taller’s shadow is a warm, somewhat grumpy, blanket, protecting him from the dangers of the world. Not that he needs protecting, especially since he’s an older brother, but still. Sometimes it’s nice to be protected, even if you don’t need it. To know you have backup. 

“Oikawa-san.”

He turns away so Kageyama doesn’t see his expression fall at the sound of his _senpai_ ’s name, not that it matters. Not that Kageyama would notice.

The setter’s eyes had been glued to Oikawa the entire game, like he was in some sort of trance. His analytical gaze was taking the university student apart, examining each part of him with great scrutiny, before finally putting him back together with new understanding.

Shōyō has no reason to be jealous.

It’s only logical that Kageyama watch Oikawa so intensely. He’s his goal, his superior in every way, the one he wants to surpass. He does it too, when he looks at the one standing next to him, whose long strides he struggles to keep up with. There’s nothing romantic about the way Kageyama looks at Oikawa, he _knows that_ , but it feels off.

Because that’s the way Shōyō looks at his setter.

“Yeah, I guess it was a bit weird.”

He worries Kageyama will look his way and see right through him. See his feelings written all over his face. As someone who has never been a good liar, he can’t hide anything, but it’s even worse when it comes to the tall setter. It’s not as though he doesn’t try. He does. Constantly.

“He could’ve stopped it.”

“Stopped what?” He hates feeling like this. Small. Tiny. And it has nothing to do with his height.

“The fall.”

“Eh?”

“Yeah. He could’ve adjusted, but he didn’t. He let himself fall. _Why_?” Kageyama’s brows furrow, his eyes set in concentration. It’s the way he looks at new plays, how he looked at Suga’s signals. How he looked at Shōyō once.

Only once.

He wonders if Kageyama _ever_ sees him. If he’s ever the centre of his focus, if if he’s a splash of colour in his periphery. He has a feeling he knows which it is. When he gets tunnel vision like this, even with his bright orange hair, Shōyō is sure he blurs the same as everything else.

Kageyama dissects people like a mechanic taking apart the inside of a car. Breaking them down to their core components, he tries to figure out what makes each cog turn. Each piece is examined thoroughly, to the point where it’s unnerving. Every part of you is under the microscope, all your flaws and imperfections on display for Kageyama to judge and critique. The silence makes your insecurities scream even louder. You wonder if he likes what he sees, or if he’s trying to rebuild it as it should be. Slowly, he puts you back together with his eyes, but you’re never quite the same. You can’t help but squirm, so vulnerable, wondering what he’ll do with the information he has. What he’ll do now that he’s seen your _soul_.

Right now, Oikawa is under that microscope.

Shōyō wishes he were in his place.

He gets it, why people find it uncomfortable, why they ask Kageyama to redirect his gaze and focus on something else, so they don’t have to feel like the very way they breathe is under scrutiny, but Shōyō likes it.

He’s been under it once before, when he first became part of the Karasuno volleyball team. The day Kageyama decided he was essential to winning.

It sounds harsh, and mean, but it meant the world to him then, and still does now. 

Because when Kageyama Tobio looks at you with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, you are important. You _matter_. You are the only thing that exists in his world for those minutes he picks you apart. The entire world fades away and it’s just you and him, and the rest of the galaxy can fucking die for all it matters. 

In those few moments, you are not just a face in a crowd, or a speck in the universe of Kageyama Tobio’s life, you _are_ the universe.

No matter how often people call Shōyō the sun, the fact remains that he is just another star about to die in Kageyama Tobio’s solar system, whose axis is Oikawa Tōru, the setter who didn’t have to fall, all while Shōyō struggles helplessly to stop his own descent for the protective shadow that stands beside him.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the worst that could happen?”
> 
> “Uh, he could reject me?”
> 
> “Then get rejected.”

_Wanna practice?_ (13:22)

Having Oikawa’s number is _weird_.

Their chat history mostly consists of things like “you busy?”, or “I can’t sleep, suffer with me”. Whenever the setter finds something hilarious, he sends it to Hajime, often texting him more often than the spiker does, though that’s mostly because he never knows what to say. It never gets deep, just the bare basics of small talk that’s not awkward, somehow, and the occasional request to meet up and practice every now and then since they both know the other plays.

There’s an unwritten rule that the shared practice is not to be used for spying and questions about the other team’s tactics will not be allowed. The one time Hajime accidentally let something slip, Oikawa covered his ears and screamed “la la la la”, telling him later he doesn’t want to win against Ushiwaka if it’s not fair and square, otherwise he’ll never know if his hard work paid off because he was good, or because he cheated.

The more hours they put in together, the more convinced he is that the fall was no accident. The reason as to why it happened though still remains a mystery.

He’s quite sure he’s getting spoiled by Oikawa’s tosses though. There’s a certain _rush_ that comes from hitting them. He wonders sometimes, if they had gone to the same high school, would they have made an unstoppable duo?

 **Sure. When?** (13:24)

“Oikawa-san is texting you?”

Ushijima Wakatoshi towers over Hajime, offering a towel.

Trying to fight down his blush, Hajime takes it. Is he that obvious? He’s never had a crush like this before. If someone as thick-headed as Ushijima can see through him, then Oikawa _must_ know, right?

“Um, yeah.”

How those two knew each other and Hajime had never heard of him before now is a wonder. If _he_ knew Oikawa, he’d talk about him all the time. Maybe he’s just biased.

“Hey, what was he like? You know, before uni?”

“No one really _knows_ Oikawa Tōru,” says Ushijima cryptically. He never should’ve expected a straight answer from a man like him. “He keeps to himself. Never really gets close to anyone.”

“Ah.”

Ushijima stares at him with such intensity, Hajime feels like he’s being X-rayed. “You like him.”

He could deny it, but he’s not a huge fan of lying and the amount of time he’s taking to consider the statement (question?) has already given him away. “Heh …” He scratches his neck, unsure of what to do with his hands. “Do you uh … do you know if he … you know …” His face is on fire, and no matter how much water he drinks, it doesn’t seem to be going down.

“You want to know if he’s gay.”

Hajime lets out a nervous chuckle. “Blunt as always.”

“I don’t see a reason not to be.”

He tries to think about a time when Ushijima was less blunt. If there was a time, it’s a foggy memory. His classmate may just be as much of a mystery to him as Oikawa. “But uh … yeah. Does he? Like boys, I mean?”

Ushijima shrugs. “You can never tell with Oikawa-san, he’s very reserved. If you like him though, go for it.”

You think so?”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uh, he could reject me?”

“Then get rejected.”

He makes it sound so simple.

“But—”

“No buts. Just do it.”

In a way, knowing would be nicer than guessing. All the same, Hajime can’t even begin to predict Oikawa’s reaction. He’s never had the straightforward confidence of the ace. Not to say that he’s insecure, he’s got a fair amount of ego and self-deprecation. It’s a nice balance, not as bold as he wishes he couldbe, but fairly secure about the things he can’t change.

The florist is hard to read anyway. At first glance, he’s an open book, ready for hungry eyes to feast upon, but as you read a little longer, you realize it’s in some make-believe language that only the oldest sages of the universe can comprehend.

 _u busy now?_ (13:40).

 **Nah. Same place?** (13:40)

 _k_ (13:41)

“I gotta get going.” Picking his bag off the floor, he tries not to think too much about Ushijima’s words. He doesn’t have the guts to put such advice into action.

There’s a reason he never made it to ace.

  
“Heads up!”

Hajime drops his practice duffel bag instantly to spike the incoming ball. It’s slightly off, but still one of the best tosses he’s ever hit. Every toss from Oikawa is basically perfect. He didn’t even realize he was picky about tosses until Oikawa, and now whenever he tries to get his own setter to mimic the brunet, they always fall short.

Oikawa grins.

“I wasn’t ready.” He’s not whining, shut up.

“You hit it, didn’t you?”

“Could’ve been better.”

The morning after his first practice in middle school, his whole body ached. He nearly fell out of bed that morning, with legs that fell like jelly and arms made out of lead, his muscles protesting against even the slightest movement. When he stumbled into the kitchen, his mother said he looked like death warmed over.

He members the sting in the palm of his hand when he hit his first ever spike, the burn of his knees when he dove headfirst for the ball. He remembers pushing himself hard, _so hard_ , just so they’d make him a regular. He remembers his legs collapsing underneath him, the hours spent jumping, higher, higher, never quite high enough, trying to get that extra inch that could make or break the game. He remembers the burns and the sweat.

Some people were on the team because their mom forced them, or they thought volleyball was an “easy sport”, since there was a lot of standing around and no real running involved. Others took it because it fit into their schedule.

Iwaizumi Hajime plays volleyball because he likes it.

There was never a moment when the stars aligned and he just _knew_ that _this_ was the sport for him. There was no epiphany, no particular instance where his palm made contact with the ball and the euphoric sensation of watching the ball sail to the other end made his heart beat faster and felt _just right_. He played, and still plays, because it’s something he enjoys. Because it’s fun, and he prefers it over other sports. He doesn’t have a noble reason, he’s good at it, and so he works to get better.

Iwaizumi Hajime likes volleyball, but Oikawa Tōru _loves_ it.

His eyes sparkle when he talks about plays, his hands tremble whenever he walks past a volleyball net in a park that’s unused and he doesn’t have a ball. He once played with a half-deflated soccer ball just so he could practice tosses. He pushes his limits so hard, Hajime has to cut him off because he can’t keep jumping for _three hours nonstop._ Sometimes he looks like he’s going to crash, or fall again, and he does. But then he gets back up and screams for another round. _Just one more_. He jumps for each ball, dives for each pass like it’s the deciding point. It doesn’t matter if it’s a practice match, or a rally to warm things up. Every single touch of the ball carries his blood, sweat and tears, and it shows.

The way he narrows his eyes, analyzing the court and his opponents. How he breaks down the court and reconstructs it, predicting every move before it’s been made, and adjusting himself to accommodate unforeseen results. The sheer force of his serve.

Oikawa Tōru _thrives_ on volleyball.

It's inspiring.

“Better make up for it then,” says Oikawa with a grin.

He’s got eyes that shine with child-like wonder, and a contagious smile as he holds the volleyball to his chest so Hajime nods and smiles, ready to play until his bones ache and he can barely move and his blood sings with excitement because _this_ is what passion is and he’ll jump at any moment to be a part of it.

  
Hajime’s smiling as his chest aches in protest of his next inhale. He’s been moving so long, his bones are stiff and hurt as he stretches. The sun is practically setting. He’s got tests to study for and papers to write, but he doesn’t give a fuck about any of that because _this_ is the highest point of his life.

Oikawa’s breathing hard too, laying in the grass, looking so _pretty_ as he laughs, nudging at Hajime about how he’s such a good boy, doing his stretches, his head is tilted towards the sun, with the fading rays looking like small sundrops on his eyelashes.

_“Then get rejected.”_

Heart is in his throat, stomach going crazy, and quite certain he’s going to throw up, Hajime decides to stop being a coward and just do it. Gulping to swallow down his water and nerves and the lunch that’s making an impressive effort to come back up, he opens his mouth—

“You’re staring at me.”

“Uh …” _You can do this. Just … do it._ “Do you …”

Oikawa rolls onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows. Hajime is quite certain he’s swallowed his tongue. How is he supposed to keep his cool when the setter looks ready to start a photoshoot?

“I mean uh …” _Rip it off, like a bandaid._

“Iwa-chan …” Oikawa smirks. “Are you nervous?”

“Me? Nervous?”

Shit. His voice just cracked. So _not_ cool.

His arms feel weird loose at his sides, and his legs feel too long and too short spread out in the grass in the middle of a stretch. The grass tickles his skin, and Oikawa looks so pretty and—

“Coffee?” he blurts out.

The sly grin on the setter’s face makes him want to take it back instantly.

“What about coffee?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Me? Enjoy watching you flounder like a dying fish? Never!”

Hajime laughs and it comes out freer than anything that’s ever left his lips. “You’re evil. _Pure_ evil. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“It’s the highest of compliments.”

The spiker rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to ask you to get coffee with me, so could you take this a little more seriously?”

Huh.

He did it.

It wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Maybe he was overthinking it. He should give himself a pat on the back.

Oikawa plucks at a blade of grass. “Eh, like a date?”

“Er …”

“Hmm?” He brings the blade to his lips and whistles into it. It lets out a terrible sound. He glares at the piece of grass as though it’s betrayed him.

“It’s erm …”

_Like a bandaid._

“No, just two guys getting coffee.”

_Chicken._

It’s not like he could’ve expected anything else from himself. Keeping the bandaid on is a good idea. Makes it heal faster.

“Sure,” Oikawa picks up a new blade of grass. “Wednesday?”

“Alright.”

Oikawa holds out the blade of grass. “Can you whistle it?”

“You should be stretching.”

“I’ll stretch later. C’mon, make beautiful music with me, Iwa-chan!”

Hajime rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ah, you’re no fun!” He’s pouting, which isn’t fair because no one prepared Hajime for Oikawa Tōru’s pouting face. He should’ve gotten a warning, at the very least.

“Compromise. I’ll teach you how to whistle grass, _after_ you stretch with me.”

Oikawa sits up a little straighter. “You drive a hard bargain, Iwaizumi-san.” It sounds _weird_ coming from the brunet’s mouth, wrong, even. “But I suppose I’ll accept. But once this over, you’ll teach me your epic blowing ways!”

Does he even know what that sounds like?

Based on the smirk he sends him, he does.

Great.

Iwaizumi Hajime has two days to get his shit together for his not-a-date with Oikawa Tōru.

He’ll never make it.

_  
Ugh, there’s a line._

Kei knows the order by heart, but staring at the chalkboard menu is preferable to the couples strewn across the coffee shop. Who decided cafés were the hottest place to bring a date?

His traitorous eyes land on a couple near the window. From his periphery, he watches as they laugh with each other.

Yamaguchi is always getting on his back about how it’s rude to stare in public. He’d probably be disappointed in him for not minding his own business.

Kei’s uncomfortably used to disappointing Yamaguchi.

But back to the sickening date. It’s probably their first, based on the thick layer of awkwardness in the air that lingers despite the laughter. The one with the dark, somewhat spiky hair, is nervous if the way he’s tapping his foot is anything to go by. The way he openly stares at the chocolate-haired boy across from him as he laughs at some shitty joke makes Kei embarrassed _for_ him. It’s like a scene from those shōjo Yamaguchi is always pretending he doesn’t read.

He wonders what he’d say if he knew Kei’s already scanned through each shōjo carefully and hasn’t figured out how to make girls swoon. Though it’s probably because he doesn’t want it to be _girls_ who are doing the swooning.

Kei knows the name of the unrest in his stomach. He’s unfortunately very familiar with it.

Envy.

To be jealous would imply he’s got something to lose, but you can’t lose what you’ve never had. Envy though, envy describes him quite well. Too well. It’s a want for that, for what they have. It’s the want for those cheesy shōjo moments of laughter and awkward first dates and holding hands underneath the table and blushing for no reason and sakura in his hair with _one person_. One he can’t have.

Kei ducks his head.

Envy doesn’t look good on him.

After placing his order, Kei waits silently, his eyes going back to the couple.

He blames it on where they’re seated. Right at the window like they’re the main feature in some BL comic. It’s hard _not_ to look at them.

Kei hates it.

How dare they?

_Oh, look at us! We’re in a mutually invested relationship! We talk things out when we have arguments and know how to articulate feelings with kind words rather than harsh insults! Our passion and devotion for each other is beautiful and must be witnessed by all! You just wish you were us, don’t you?_

He might be overreacting, but Yamaguchi isn’t here to put him in his place, so he takes the cup from the barista’s hand with a little more force than necessary and bites his tongue so he doesn’t say anything like “I GET IT, YOU’RE PERFECT!” as he slips pass them, only trusting himself to breathe once he’s outside.

“You didn’t have to get my coffee for me.” He’s grinning and his freckles are darker in the sun.

_Back to holding your breath, it seems._

Yamaguchi takes a sip. “It’s cold.”

“It’s iced.”

“Ah! Brain freeze!”

The blond pulls the cup from his friend’s hands, holding it high, out of his reach. “If you can’t drink responsibly, you won’t drink at al.”

_No, it’s not fair when you pout like that._

He bites his lip to stop himself from doing or saying something stupid. He may bleed with the effort.

Yamaguchi lets his hands fall to his sides and he shoulders his bag. “Fine. I’ll just ask Akiteru.”

_Ah. Right._

Akiteru.

“Tsukki, careful!”

The iced drink drips down his wrist, the cup overflowing as his fist clenches around it tightly. He can barely feel the cold.

It’s always Akiteru.

“What if it’d been hot?”

_I knew you first._

“It wasn’t.”

_Why is he so special?_

“But what if it was? You can’t burn your fingers, you’re the best middle blocker we’ve got.”

Part of him preens at the compliment, but his darker thoughts overpower it, as always.

_I’m here._

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about stupid things.”

_Look at me. Focus on me._

Yamaguchi starts to wipe at his hand with a napkin, but there’s a puncture in the side of the paper from his nail, so its pointless. It’s leaking onto the ground now.

“We have to hurry, we can’t be late for practice.”

To say the pooling liquid reminds him of his brain when in his best friend’s company would sound too dramatic, so he doesn’t voice the thought. But he feels it.

“Say it was traffic.”

Yamaguchi pauses his mother-hen mode. Kei will never admit he misses it.

“Tsukki …” His voice is quiet, small.

_No, wait. Not like that. I didn’t mean like that._

“Do you really hate it that much?”

_Why can’t I stop disappointing you?_

“Let’s go. We’ll be late.”

He walks past Yamaguchi, knowing he’ll follow. His breath catches in his throat as their shoulders brush.

He climbs on the bus, and sure enough, Yamaguchi is right next to him, pressed up against his side in the crowded chaos that is Japanese public transport. Gritting his teeth to hold back the urge to wrap his arms around Yamaguchi, he watches as the pinch server shakes and trembles. The freckled boy never liked small places, but his grip on the pole is too loose. He’ll inevitably crash into him.

The window in front of him is obscured by all the passengers, but not quite enough to stop him from seeing the couple. The one that was laughing. They both seem to have calmed down and fallen into that easy conversation like most people do once the nerves die away.

_Why can’t we be like that?_

The bus moves, the couple disappearing from view.

They linger in Kei’s mind.

Envy really does not suit him.

  
Hajime struggles to catch his breath, holding his stomach even though he’s quite sure it’s the wrong area of his body to hold, considering his heart is making a valiant effort to leap out of his chest.

Oikawa’s grinning widely at him.

It’s the most defenceless he’s ever seen the setter.

This feels _good_. It’s so natural to sit with the florist and talk about aliens and bugs and alien bug colonies and the cosmic voice that is scary and inviting at the same time.

He’d loathe to ruin it.

But that’s just the kind of thing Hajime does, so he opens his mouth and says it before he can chicken out and over think it again.

“Oikawa, what would you say if … if I said I wanted this to be a date?”

No response.

_Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck FUCK. Idiot, take it back now, don’t just sit there moping, take it back before it gets weird._

“Haha, just kidding!” As he struggles to swallow the oddly heart-shaped lump in his throat, he realizes he should’ve been covering his mouth. “I uh—”

Oikawa’s not even paying attention to him.

Instead, that intense setter gaze is trained on the two people who have just entered the café.

A tall boy with dark hair and a considerably shorter boy with bright orange hair.

“Oikawa?”

He follows the brunet’s gaze to the duo who are bickering in line over their orders. They look cute together. Like they fit.

Do Oikawa and he look that way?

Before he can torment himself with the most probable answer of _no_ , he calls the setter’s name again.

“Hmm?” Hajime is worried about how quickly he moves his neck. “Were you saying something, Iwa-chan?”

“Uh, nothing important.”

They continue talking, but he doesn’t have Oikawa’s full attention anymore. He’s distracted, looking at the corner of his eye, glancing at the boys as they have their coffee and bicker some more.

They’re like an old married couple.

But it’s fine, because it’s not like this is an actual date. He’s dodged a bullet this way. He can’t imagine how humiliated he’d feel if it were, and he lost his date’s interest to some grumbly couple. Mostly because the embarrassment he feels right now, knowing it’s not a date, is so much he can barely measure it.

He had thought they were doing pretty well. The conversation had shifted from being polite to being genuine, but maybe it’s his mind playing tricks on him, seeing what he wants so badly.

The boys stand up from their table and— _are they walking over here?_

“How’s your knee, Oikawa-san?”

The florist jerks his head up to the tall boy who appears to be looking at him like he’s trying to break him. “Ah! Tobio-chan! How are you and Shrimpy? Missed me while I’ve been at uni?”

_They know each other?_

“Don’t call me that.”

_Tobio-chan._

It irritates him in a way he doesn’t understand.

“How’s your knee, Grand King?” asks the carrot top suddenly.

“Grand King?” Hajime echoes, but Oikawa brushes him off, like an annoying flea in his face.

“Was just a little fall,” says Oikawa. “No big deal!” His smile is plastered on, so played up it’s almost creepy. “How’re your serves going?” Did he voice get hoarse?

“None of your business.”

“C’mon, tell your _senpai_ how you’ve been!”

Hajime’s starting to think he can just slip away, say he’s going to the bathroom and then crawl out the window and run, like the coward he is. Because Ushijima made it sound so _easy_ , but it’s not, and getting rejected really _does_ hurt way more than can ever be predicted.

“Are you on a date?” the shorter boy cuts in.

“Iwa-chan? Nah, we’re just hanging out.”

He knew that. _He fucking knew that_. It still hurts a stupid amount, though.

“It was nice seeing you,” says Tobio-chan. It sounds more like a formality.

“Isn’t it always?” There’s a spark of _something_ in the brunet’s eyes that doesn’t feel fake, but it’s not real either.

Even after the two leave, Oikawa looks far away, lost in some other world.

“Who was he?” asks Hajime cautiously, unsure of how the setter will react to his voice.

“Tobio-chan?” He sounds far away, like he’s just been placed back into reality and is trying to relearn his surroundings. “Just a _kouhai_ from middle school.”

It’s more than that, but he doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

“Listen, Iwa-chan, I’m not feeling too well. I know it’s rude, but would you mind if I went home? I think the extra practice is finally catching up to me.”

Hajime nods numbly.

He’s still numb long after the man is gone, left with a bill and the feeling his stomach is being eaten by the acids inside it.

  
Tōru barely registers the crowded bodies on the bus before he bursts out the doors and sprints down the road in a run. Fumbling with his keys, he unlocks the door and prays he has enough time.

If these two months since the petals turned into full-blown flowers is any indication, he doesn’t have any left.

He just barely kicks off his shoes before locking himself in the bathroom and dropping his bag on the floor. It hits the floor with a thud, echoing on the linoleum.

He falls to his knees and pushes the toilet set up, and opens his mouth.

His body lurches forward. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Nothing.

His stomach, his sides, his _heart_ hurts. The dry-heaving is bruising his ribcage, which he _knows_ is bad, but he can’t talk to anyone about it, so he closes his eyes and pushes aside the pain, imagining for a moment that it’s gone. That he’s just drank something wrong, a bad protein shake or something.

The convulsions return and the fantasy fades to dust.

Tumbling forward, he licks his lips.

His tongue tastes like metal.

He hates it, _hates it so much_ , but his mouth opens against his will and he can’t breathe. Trying to keep quiet, the sound echoes off the tiled bathroom walls. Gripping the toilet seat until his knuckles turn white does nothing to steady the spinning world.

He has no other choice.

Cringing, he put his fingers in his mouth and arranges himself in a way that’s uncomfortably familiar. Forcing his digits down his throat, he coughs, sputtering. His fingers are covered in spit, and it’s gross, but he hasn’t gone deep enough yet, and he _needs it out._

Wiping his mouth with the back of his arm, there’s blood on the white sleeve of his jacket.

His windpipe is clogged for several seconds, and then he coughs it out.

Red speckles on the purple petals.

Blood.

 _His_ blood.

He knew it.

This feels like unnecessary torture. The feelings, the emptiness, that’s enough, and yet there’s also this shit on top of it all?

It hurts enough, why make it worse?

“Tōru?”

The brunet freezes.

_Akira._

He’s nauseous and unsure if his legs can support his weight. Though he’s lost weight since this whole ordeal started, he feels so heavy.

“I was in town and Takeru wanted to see you!”

He forces himself to stand up, even when his legs wobble underneath his weight.

He can do this.

Flushing the toilet, Tōru prepares to head out when he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

Sweat is plastered to his forehead, the smallest of bloodstains on his jacket feels like the biggest spill. He hasn’t slept in days and it shows. Wrapping his jacket around his waist to hide the stain, he adjusts his hair in the mirror, playing a careful game where he looks at his features, but not at _himself_. Otherwise, he’ll talk himself out of seeing anyone ever again.

By the time he turns the bathroom doorknob, he’s got his signature fake smile on his face.

Takeru runs up to him, hugging him tightly.

“Tōru-nii-san!”

The setter holds the boy to his chest, breathes in his smell. Takeru is always a good pick-me-up.

One day, they’ll find him surrounded by violet flowers and a root lodged in his throat. He doesn’t want to think of the expression Takeru will wear then.

The coroner’s report should be interesting.

Cause of death?

Asphyxiation by beautiful flowers.

The timer has started.

He’s only got a few months left.

He’s going to miss this. The hugs, the family, his friends. Hell, he’s going to miss _Iwaizumi_ , a man he barely knows.

He wonders if anyone will miss him.


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hey, so I paid the bill you left me with when you kinda ran out of our not-a-date after speaking to your kouhai. How you doing?_

They should talk. He _knows_ they should talk. Scratch that, they _need_ to talk, but what’s he even supposed to say?

_Hey, so I paid the bill you left me with when you kinda ran out of our not-a-date after speaking to your kouhai. How you doing?_

Yeah, right.

All the same, it’s a conversation that needs to happen, so he bounces from one foot to another outside the shop, trying to psych himself up to talk to the florist.

Their eyes connect.

_Shit, not ready!_

He _could_ just rip it off like a bandaid, but the last time he applied that metaphor all it had done was left him embarrassed and ignored so—

_Fuck it._

He can do this.

Right as he’s about to open the door, someone zooms in past him, off-setting his balance. By the time he’s able to walk in again, he realizes the one who walked in was that boy from the coffee shop.

Oikawa’s _kouhai_.

He’s got a stupid grin on his face as the two exchange words, but there’s something in his eyes that leaves a bitter taste in Hajime’s mouth.

Eventually, the dark haired boy turns red and leaves without buying anything, moving so quickly, he nearly knocks Hajime over again in his rush. When he pushes the door open, Oikawa doesn’t evenacknowledge the bells jingling above his head.

The spiker takes a tentative step forward—

Oikawa covers his mouth and runs to a back door, presumably leading to the storage room, slamming his body against it as though he’s forgotten how doors work in his haste to get away, before he opens it and stumbles inside.

It slams shut with a note of finality.

Hajime stands in the empty shop, unsure of what to do with himself.

Suddenly, there are shuffling sounds, and then a crash.

Before he knows it, he’s jumped over the counter and ripping the door open.

Toppled over boxes, a broken vase, flowers strewn across the floor … it’s a mess. But the worst part is the sound. Rather, the _lack_ of sound.

A tuft of chocolate brown hair peeks out from behind a box.

Walking at a painfully slow speed, Hajime reaches the setter and stops, his heart breaking at the sight before him.

Oikawa Tōru is suffocating himself.

Head facing downwards, his hands are positioned over his mouth and nose.

Trying to walk quickly, but carefully, around the broken shards of glass, Hajime drops to his knees in front of him.

Purple petals cover the floor. There are tiny droplets of blood.

_Did he cut himself on the glass?_

A choked sob.

Unsure of the right course of action, only knowing any longer and the boy will either die, or pass out, Hajime puts his hand over Oikawa’s and tries to pull him away. Oikawa’s head snaps up to look at him instantly.

_He’s been crying._

His eyes are glassy and distant, like he’s stopped seeing what’s in front of him a while ago. Tear tracks run down Oikawa’s face, but his sobs are almost non-existent. He sounds like an injured dog, and his face is turning purple now to match the petals—

“ _Breathe_ , Shittykawa!”

He pulls apart each of Oikawa’s fingers independently from each other, trying to let his breath circulate, to alleviate the pressure in his lungs, but Oikawa fights him, tries to push him back, tries to cover himself again. Hajime tackles him to the ground, the boxes slip and slide and another vase knocks over, but when he aggressively pulls apart the setter’s arms, forcing him to let go, the wreck is worth it.

Oikawa twists, turns away from Hajime, and coughs violently. He sounds more in pain like this than he did when he couldn’t breathe. Hajime tries to put a hand on his shoulder, but the brunet shoves him away.

Oikawa wipes the back of his mouth with his arm, fresh tears in his eyes. There’s more blood, and in his hand are the mysterious purple petals.

“Iwa-chan …” It’s hoarse and _wrong_ , and nothing like the boy Hajime has been talking to for the past few months. He forces out a laugh that sounds broken and fragmented and _tragic_. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude not to knock?”


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They were beautiful. Like a poppy dyed purple._
> 
> _The petal crumbled quickly underneath his callused finger. “How …?”_
> 
> _“I’m fine.”_
> 
> _“Bullshit.”_

_“Have a nice day!”_

_Tōru smiled at the young boy buying flowers for his playground crush. He reminded him of himself when he was younger. “You too,” he said, even as the boy ran out the door in his excitement to be with his “beloved”._

_Ah, to be young like that again._

_Rubbing his throat, he frowned. His throat was itchy, had been for the past few months, and he was thinking about seeing a doctor since the irritation hadn’t gone away in the last two weeks when the flower shop door opened and_ **_He_ ** _walked in._

_“You work here now?”_

_“I need to pay tuition somehow,” said Tōru. He sounded casual, yeah? “Can I rely on you to be a regular customer?”_

_The boy clicked his tongue._

_“What can I do for you today, Tobio-chan?”_

_He stifled a laugh as Kageyama Tobio’s eye twitched._

_How long had he known him? About six years. In all that time, he had never seen the setter smile. Not once._

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_“Ah ah ah, you didn’t answer my question. I’m just doing my job.”_

_“I uh …” Kageyama bit his lip, and turned his head away. It did nothing to hide the red colour his face was turning. “There’s a … thing.”_

_“A thing?” Tōru repeated with a slight leer in his voice. “Oh my, well now I certainly know just what you’re talking about~”_

_“Shut up. I just … do you have protea?”_

_“Protea?” Tōru blinked. “You mean those large flowers that look like they’ve got cacti at the centre?” Why would he know a flower by its name? He had never shown interest in anything short of volleyball. “What’s the occasion?”_

_“Just … nothing.”_

**_He’s flustered._ **

_Something twinged in his stomach, but he pushed it aside. “Those are kinda rare,” Tōru said, retreating towards the backroom. “From South Africa, you know. Not exactly a hop and skip from here. You want a bouquet, or like, a single one? Or just an assortment with protea in it?”_

_“One’s fine.”_

_Tōru picked a single protea and packaged it appropriately. There was a tug in his chest that lurched when he knotted the ribbon and handed it over to Kageyama._

_The poor setter looked tortured as he gave him his best attempt at a grin._

_That was the first night Tōru stared down into a toilet bowl of bloody petals._

_It was a secret he would take to his grave._

  
“How’d your date go?”

Hajime just barely pulls himself out of his own head to remind his friends it wasn’t a date, just two bros getting coffee. And then one of them ran out the door in a panic of some kind when some former _kouhai_ or something turned up.

His mind has been stuck in that storage room for the past forty-eight hours.

 

_“Iwa-chan …” His voice was hoarse, and the laugh he let out sounded broken and cut deep. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude not to knock?”_

_He had so many questions, but his voice wouldn’t work._

_What was going on? What was happening? Was he okay?_

_The wing spiker reached out, his fingers brushing the soft petals._

_They were beautiful. Like a poppy dyed purple._

_The petal crumbled quickly underneath his callused finger. “How …?”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“Bullshit.”_

_“Iwa-chan—”_

_“_ ** _Bullshit_ ** _,” Hajime repeated with more force. “Tell me what’s going on.” Oikawa’s eyes were dark, rich chocolate pools of emotion, guarded and delicate. Scared. Cornered. “Please.”_

_“I …” Oikawa leaned against a box, stretching out his leg. Licking his lips, he glanced at Hajime and, to the volleyball player’s surprise, he laughed._

_It was a dreadful sound. Empty, and yet so full of the pain that echoes in a void of unspoken words. Self-deprecating and humourless, Hajime wished it would stop._

_“Why didn’t you knock?” The whisper tickled his back. With each deep breath, Oikawa’s body shook. “Why couldn’t you just …”_

_His fingers itched to do something, to brush away the glass shards, to straighten the knocked over flowers, to wipe the tears from Oikawa’s eyes. But he kept them back. Stopped himself from rubbing the brunet’s back, or cracking his knuckles just to end the silence._

_He had taken enough control out of the moment, walking in when he shouldn’t have. Oikawa didn’t owe him any explanations, no matter how much he wanted some._

_This was Oikawa’s moment. He had to decide what happened next._

_The setter picked up a small flower and twirled it in his palm. “Have you ever been in love, Hajime?”_

**_He said my first name._ **

_But now wasn’t the time to get caught up over that, so he pushed the thought aside to be examined at a more appropriate date. This was about Oikawa, not him and his pointless crush._

_“I uh … Do you actually want me to answer that?”_

_“Mmm,” said Oikawa, looking at him expectantly._

_“I uh …” Hajime twisted his hands in his lap. “I dunno … I mean, I love my mother, but I get the feeling that’s not what you’re talking about. I’ve_ **_liked_ ** _people before.” He trapped the “I like you” and pushed forward. “I’ve dated, and had crushes. But I don’t think I’ve veer … been in love before, whatever that means._

_“It’s different for everyone, right? Maybe I have, and I just never knew. But I’ve been nervous around people I like before, though that’s the most I’ve gotten to being like those cheesy passages in books … I don’t think I’ve ever gotten, like, butterflies, necessarily.”_

_Oikawa chuckled, hollow and low. “Lucky.”_

_“Huh?”_

_“Don’t do it.” Pulling his knee closer to his chest, Oikawa rested his head on it. Though he coughed lightly, his whole knee trembled. A small petal escaped from his lips, just as beautiful as the ones before it. “0/10, would not recommend.”_

  
Oikawa had dragged himself off the floor, straightened his clothes and told Hajime he best get going since he had an entire storage room to clean. The spiker had left, but only because he was busy processing everything that was happening. Was _still_ processing it.

“Oi, Iwaizumi-san?”

Hajime barely manages to dodge the volleyball.

“Take the day off. You’re not getting anything done this way,” says the Captain with a sigh.

“But—”

“No buts. You’re useless this way.”

He packs his bag with feeble protests, and before he realizes he’s in front of the flower shop.

The bell above the door announces his arrival.

“Oikawa?”

The setter looks up from the counter, and nearly falls backwards. “Iwa-chan!”

“Look—”

“Look—”

“No, you go first—”

“No, you go first—”

It’s not exactly the time and place for Hajime to think of how beautiful Oikawa looks when his cheeks are stained red, but his hormones have never really been onboard with the rest of his brain.

“You go first,” says Hajime, gesturing with his hand, feeling useless.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” he echoes. “ _You’re_ sorry? The fuck are _you_ sorry for?”

“It was … weird.” Oikawa shrugs. “I lashed out at you, and that was wrong. I shouldn’t be bothering you with my shit. It’s my shit, and I have to deal with it. I was really dramatic, and I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to know.” _No one was_ goes unsaid. “So … are we okay?”

“I didn’t know we weren’t okay. I was going to apologize. I mean, I _am_ apologizing. You’re right, I should’ve knocked, and it was an invasion of privacy. I think you said some things you felt pressured to reveal to me, just because I walked in at the wrong time, and I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m kind of glad you walked in,” says Oikawa so softly, Hajime almost doesn’t hear it. “I … Well, I think I may have suffocated to death if you hadn’t.”

Drumming his fingers against the counter just so he’ll have _something_ to do, Hajime tries to get to his main reason for being here. “If … I mean, I know we’re not close. We barely know each other, but … if you want to talk to someone, you could … talk to me. I’m not really good at … this sort of thing …”

“This sort of thing?” He sounds amused. That’s good. Right?

“The whole … talking shit out stuff, or whatever. But I can try. I don’t always know what to say, but I’m always willing to listen. If you ever …” Hajime shakes his head. “Never mind, it’s dumb—”

Oikawa’s hand covers Hajime’s own trembling fingers. “Thanks … Hajime.”

He’s not sure if he’s overthinking it, or if his “no problem” is as choked as he thinks.


	7. seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The flowers. What kind are they?”
> 
> “You’re not …? I mean …”
> 
> “I’m not what?” 
> 
> “I mean … I told you I’m slowly dying from flowers that are cutting off the passageway for air to my lungs, and that’s all you have to say?”

Tōru should tell him.

Iwaizumi deserves to know, and it’s not like the curiosity isn’t killing the man. He knows it’d be killing him if their roles were reversed. He wants to be the one to tell him, before he figures it out on his own, or stumbles across some stupid online forum about it. It doesn’t take that much effort to type “throwing up flowers” into a search engine.

Plus, Iwaizumi is a worrier. He’s probably making him fret needlessly. Well, not needlessly. Tōru _is_ dying after all. But he should clear up these misunderstandings as quickly as possible.

But as he stares at his phone, he just can’t get himself to do it.

There’s something about Iwaizumi Hajime.

Even though they’ve only known each other a few months,he feels as close to the spiker as though he’s known him his whole life, or at least, was supposed to. He’s not nearly as superstitious as others seem to think, but if the red string of fate is real (which, it must be, right? If throwing up flowers is an actual thing, then invisible ties to other people can’t have been dreamed up), he can see how he and Iwaizumi may be knotted together. He understands him in ways no one else can, not even Akira. His walls crumble to dust under Iwaizumi’s gaze, while also feeling picked away at.

He doesn’t have the same armour he has with others when he’s around the spiker. Telling him this … this would break it all down. There’d be nothing to hide behind anymore. And that scares him.

He’s a big boy. He can admit it.

Oikawa Tōru is terrified of Iwaizumi Hajime.

But he deserves to know.

 _Can we talk?_ (20:21)

It’s as if his phone _knows_ his inner turmoil. The small text takes _forever_ to send, and by the time the little bar says it’s been officially sent, he’s regretting it immensely and wants to delete it. Does he have to jump into the deep web in order to retrieve it? He’ll do it, if that’s what it takes when—

 **Something wrong?** (20:22)

Tōru’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, unsure of what to say.

This isn’t exactly a conversation meant for text. Not that he’s an expert. To be honest, this is the type of conversation you’re never supposed to have. How do you go about explaining such a ridiculous disease that you were content to take with you to your fastly approaching grave?

 _Is it too late to ask to meet up?_ (20:24)

 **Oikawa, you’re worrying me.** (20:24)

 **What’s going on?** (20:24)

He can’t do this.

 _It’s a bit late. never mind._ (20:26)

 **If you think 8:30 is late, you’re clearly less cool than I thought you were. I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Don’t move.** (20:27)

Tōru blinks.

Just how has Iwaizumi managed to make him laugh and comfort him better when it takes buckets of ice creams and seven re-watches of _E.T_ to even _begin_ to feel okay?

 _Do you even know where I am?_ (20:34)

 **Send me your address.** (20:35)

 _Don’t tell me you just got in your car and started wandering, too prideful to ask where I was_. (20:37)

 **…** (20:38)

He sends him the address, and the panic settles in once more.

Pacing a hole into the floor, he tries to practice what he’s going to say.

Tōru has done many stressful things. He’s been the deciding serve in a match, he’s been tasked with looking after Takeru for an extended period of time because for some reason, his sister mistakenly trusted her younger brother with a life form that he had no idea what to do with. He’s had to choose which high school, which university he’s had to go to. Hell, he had to decide whether to die with these feelings, or keep living without them.

Somehow, telling Iwaizumi is more stressful than any of those things.

_You’ve got this. Don’t overthink it. Stop freaking out. You’re the one who decided to tell him, you can’t back out now._

The doorbell rings.

“Oikawa?”

_Abort,_ **_abort_ ** _!_

He’s not sure if the world is spinning because of the nerves or the coughing fit that’s sure to come, but he walks to the door, swallows down the thorns and dares to open the door and face the music.

“Iwa-chan … hey.”

“Hey yourself.” There’s no playful grin to accompany his words. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe him.

“Um, do you want something to drink?” He gestures for Iwaizumi to follow him into the kitchen and begins to ruffle through the fridge and the cupboard. “I’ve got some tea, coffee, a soft drink maybe? I think there’s some beer from when my sis visited.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

Tōru’s hands are trembling as he takes the tea out of the cupboard. _You’ve got this._

“I thought … I owe you an explanation about last Friday.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes widen. “You … you don’t have to. It’s personal, I can tell.”

It’s the perfect out, and much kinder than Tōru would have expected. It’s a sensitive topic, one that he’s never really thought about having to put into words, and this is the perfectexcuse to just brush it off and pretend it never happened.

He could take it. Apologize for dragging Iwaizumi act and making things weird. He could say he’s tired and didn’t meant to, that he’d rather forget about it. He knows he’d let him.

“No, you deserve to know.”

Because Oikawa Tōru never takes the easy way out.

The spiker takes a seat at his kitchen table, and it’s weird. He’s never thought of his apartment as a super personal place, it’s where he rests his head and where he does his homework and everything that’s not volleyball related, but it’s ever felt like it’s _his_ space, until now, with Iwaizumi in it. It freaks him out a little. It feels domestic, in a way he can’t explain. He takes a seat across from the boy and keeps his hands in his lap so no one can see them shake.

“Um … This is … oh God, this is going to sound crazy. I …” He runs his bottom lip between his teeth. He’s made his bed, now he has to lay in it. “I have Hanahaki. Which, er, this is going to sound ridiculous …

“It’s basically er, when you falling love with someone and they don’t … I mean, like it’s not … wanted, then this plant …” He shakes his head. “This sounds like really bad sci-fi …” As he says it, he knows he’d have loved it if it was happening to anyone other than him. “But it grows inside of you, this plant that’s supposed to be like … a physical manifestation of your feelings?” He rubs his throat. “And uh, eventually, if not treated, it’ll grow in your lungs, and eventually … I’ll die.”

There’s silence.

“So … yeah … I … well, I fell in love with somebody I wasn’t supposed to, and now I’m coughing up bloody petals.”

It sounds so ridiculous when he says it that way.

Iwaizumi still isn’t saying anything, most probably processing everything and that’s all good and fine, but there’s very little keeping him from biting his nails straight off and picking at his skin, or doing something really stupid like suggest they make cootie-catchers so he’ll have something to do with his trembling fingers. He stares at the patterns on the floor. It needs to be cleaned. There’s dust on the soles of his socks. Maybe he should put them in the laundry.

He can just imagine what the boy across from him is thinking.

_Is he lying? Am I dreaming? Who is it? He’s dying? Why doesn’t he just get treatment? How long has this been happening? Does anyone else know? Would he have told me if I hadn’t walked in when I did? How long does he have left?_

The silence is so close to suffocating him so he opens his mouth when—

“What are they?”

Tōru blinks. “What?”

“The flowers. What kind are they?”

Well. This is not what he expected.

“Er, amenones.” Tōru gives him a sideways glance.“You’re not …? I mean …”

“I’m not what?” asks Iwaizumi with a raised eyebrow like he’s challenging him to question him. Like he’s an alien, or something.

“I mean … I told you I’m slowly dying from flowers that are cutting off the passageway for air to my lungs, and that’s all you have to say?”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but there’s no mockery in it. “Obviously I have more questions, but I know it was hard for you to tell me this much. I think there’s been enough confessions for one night.”

“But …”

“But what?”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m lying? Or that I’m stupid? Or crazy?”

“Why would I think you’re lying? I saw them. If you’re crazy, so am I.” Iwaizumi leans back a bit in his chair. “Besides, you’re not stupid. S’not like you can control who you like.”

“I …”

His eyes are starting to sting. He better not cry. He’s done it once, and has since vowed to never do it again. Biting on his lip, he swallows the lump in his throat, chiding himself. He can’t open his mouth, too scared of what’ll come out. Maybe it’ll be a whimper, or a whine, or he’ll just start bawling.

“I’m glad you told me,” says Iwaizumi softly. “I … I don’t really know what I can do to help, but I’ve been told talking to people help. So I’m glad to have been some assistance. That makes this sound like a business deal, doesn’t it? In which case, we are both poorly undressed.”

Tōru snorts.

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m here. If you want to talk. About stupid things, or serious things. Either is fine. Just … I’m here.”

There’s that blush again, taking over Iwaizumi’s cheeks.

He barely knows the man, and he’s just spilt his darkest secret and though the response was cheesy, the sincerity in his eyes is undeniable.

Tōru doesn’t tell him to leave, and Iwaizumi doesn’t ask to. Instead they talk.

Just talk. Mostly about the stupid stuff, because the setter has said too many serious things for the rest of the year, and he’s exhausted. Though his day hasn’t been super taxing, the last half hour have weighed him down considerably, but also free him in a way he never knew was possible.

They talk about horoscopes, and cheesy movies, and who the best Spider-Man is. They talk about how to describe the colour red to blind people and take a stupid Buzzfeed quiz about which Disney princess they are.

The minutes turn into hours, and the light outside slowly begins to reappear. He doesn’t know what time it is, it’s lost all meaning, and every time there’s a lull in the conversation he gets scared Iwaizumi will leave, say he’s got an exam to take soon and he had better study, or this has been fun, but he really must get going, but he doesn’t. He keeps waiting for the ball to drop, for the moment to come, but it never does.

And then his usual 5 AM alarm goes off, reminding him to go for a run, and Iwaizumi teases him about the _X-Files_ sound effect it has, and when he thinks they’ll part ways, he joins him on the run, burrows some of his clothes and they go jogging for a bit.

He feels _okay_ for the first time in a long time.

Part of him wonders if he’s just pathetic enough to have kept Iwaizumi around and occupied for so long, but he doesn’t dare ask. Doesn’t want to hear about how he’s wasting his time, or how the spiker knew just how long to stick around before Tōru was able to breathe easier. Instead, he blares his _Star Trek_ soundtrack and he learns the heathen has never seen the original, or the reboot, and they set aside a date to fix that.

Iwaizumi finally leaves sometime around 4 PM the next day, and Tōru realizes he’s taken his entire Saturday, though it all went by like such a breeze and he doesn’t have words to describe how thankful he is, doesn’t know if there are enough combinations of vowels to properly convey this feeling of being able to _breathe_ again in what feels like months, so he gives him the Vulcan salute and tells him one day he’ll learn what that means and from the way Iwaizumi attempts to give it back to him, he’s quite sure he’s understood.


	8. eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know a rollercoaster? Like, when you’re at the incline when the ride gets to that angle where you can’t see the tracks anymore but you _know_ they’re there cause you’ve been on the ride a thousand times before, and it’s going to fun, you _know_ it is, but there’s still a part of you that still thinks it’s going to break any second? Most stories will describe it that way. But it’s not. It’s an elevator, which sounds so much less climactic, but it is."

  
_It hurts._ (0:12)

It’s been two weeks since he found out, and though he hates that Oikawa’s going through this, it’s brought them closer than Hajime could’ve ever thought they would be. Though he mostly distracts him, there are moments where he becomes serious. Sometimes it’s best to let him face his demon, other times to show him how to blow blades of grass. The most important thing is to stay by his side the whole time.

Sometimes he sends texts like these, out of nowhere, at odd hours, and he never knows what to say. What _can_ he say? It’s so much easier to distract him, to tell a joke and watch as he laughs and his nose crinkles in just the right way. It’s easier to throw grass in his hair and watch as he screams like he’s being boiled alive and dumps the rest of his water bottle on his head.

As his thumbs hover over the keypad, he wonders what to say. What _can_ he say? He’s never been good at these types of talks, the serious talks, the sad talks. He doesn’t regret telling him that he could have them with him though.

He just knows Oikawa Tōru needs someone he can be vulnerable with. Hajime’s honoured that it’s him.

Before he can begin to compose a message, the three dots appear again so he waits.

Oikawa needs this.

 _like some days it doesn’t, if I don’t think about it_ (0:14)

 _but then something will remind me of them_ (0:14)

 _and it hurts again_ (0:15)

 _why does it have to hurt?_ (0:15)

 _its really weird how it hurts a lot & yet doesn’t at the same time_ (0:16)

 _like I’m used to it now_ (0:16)

 _i dont know if the pain or the fact that i barley notice it anymore is worse_ (0:16)

 _Iwa-chan?_ (0:20)

 _Sorry if I’m bugging you_ (0:21)

 _I’ll let you sleep_ (0:21)

 **NO!** (0:22)

 _???_ (0:22)

 _Something wrong?_ (0:22)

 **Shouldn’t I be asking you that?** (0:23)

 _I can’t sleep_. (0:23)

 _Entertain me?_ (0:23)

He’s got a test tomorrow. It’s for a hard subject, though he can’t remember the class except that he’s doing pretty badly in it.

Hajime lies back in his bed, and checks his battery. He’s got 85%, and the charger is within reach.

 **What house are you?** (0:24)

 _House?_ (0:24)

 _OMG, Iwa-chan, are you a Potterhead?_ (0:24)

 **…** (0:24)

 _You totally are! Aw, that’s so cute!_ (0:25)

 **You’re totally a Slytherin.** (0:25)

 _What? So mean, Iwa-chan~_ (0:25)

 **I bet you were that kid who liked to watch insects burn under a magnifying glass.** (0:26)

 _And if I was?_ (0:26)

 **Told you. Slytherin**. (0:26)

 _It was in the name of science!_ (0:26)

 **Whatever you say, Shittykawa.** (0:26)

 _Rude~_ (0:26)

 _If I’m a Slytherin, you’re a Hufflepuff._ (0:26)

 **I’m okay with that.** (0:27)

 **Newt’s a Hufflepuff, he’s cool.** (0:27)

 _Fuck, you’re right._ (0:28)

 _Dammit._ (0:28)

 **Ha.** (0:29)

 _Anyone ever tell you how rude you are, Iwa-chan?_ (0:29)

 **Whatever.** (0:29)

 _Wanna play 21 questions?_ (0:29)

 **Oikawa.** (0:29)

 **Seriously?** (0:29)

 _Yup. Now we’ve got 19 left. My question. Who’s your Doctor?_ (0:31)

 **You counted that as a question.** (0:31)

 **You ACTUALLY counted that as a question.** (0:32)

 **And you don’t need to know my doctor, unless you plan on injuring me anytime soon.** (0:32)

 _No, not your doctor, your Doctor. Capital D_. (0:32)

 **What, like my dick?** (0:32)

 **Is this supposed to be some kind of weird kink of yours or something?** (0:32)

 _So dirty minded Iwa-chan~_ (0:33)

 _No, like Doctor. Time lord? Ring a bell?_ (0:33)

 **Oh you mean Doctor Who!** (0:33)

 **Isn’t he that old guy with the somewhat curly hair?** (0:34)

 _That was the old Doctor. The new Doctor is a girl! Only took them some fifty odd years to get around to it._ (0:34)

 **Isn’t the Doctor married? To like that woman with the frizzy hair? Does that make his wife a bisexual? Since like, she married him, but now he’s a she?** (0:34)

 _Maybe. I mean I didn’t really think about it like that._ (0:34)

 **So you’re a huge sci-fi dork, is that what I’m supposed to assume?** (0:35)

 **Are we gonna get into an argument about Star Trek VS Star Wars?** (0:35)

 _I mean we could, but I doubt you have enough time for that._ (0:35)

 _Sorry for waking you up, by the way._ (0:35)

**Whatever you need, Oikawa.**

Oh shit. He can’t send that.

But Oikawa’s already seen those treacherous dots that reveal that he’s been typing, so he has to say _something_ now.

 **Did you know pineapples come out of the ground?** (0:36)

 _Seriously? That’s weird. I don’t believe you._ (0:36)

 **Look it up. It’s true.** (0:36)

 _My whole life is a lie._ (0:39)

 **Don’t be overdramatic.** (0:39)

 _But like … HOW??!!_ (0:39)

 **You think I know everything?** (0:40)

They text until four in the morning.

It’s as he walks to school looking like a zombie with only three hours of sleep to tackle a test worth a third of his grade that it hits him.

Hajime is totally screwed when it comes to Oikawa Tōru.

  
“Tell me about them.”

The water goes down the wrong pipe as Tōru starts choking profusely, thumping at his chest.

“Oh shit, I didn’t mean to— here.” Iwaizumi pats at his back with perhaps a little more force than necessary as the setter gets his shit together, or at least, tries to.

“I … er …”

Iwaizumi guides him underneath a tree, shielding him from the beating sun and making him settle in the cool grass. “I thought we could take a break. Bad segue, I realize now. I was just curious. You know. About who caught your attention.”

There’s a pause.

“But you don’t have to! You know, again, no obligations or anything, just thought we could make conversation and stuff. If it hurts too much, you don’t have to, I just—”

“No, just. Give me a second.” Tōru pulls his knees close to himself and picks at the blades of grass next to his shoes. They’re nice shoes. Akira has good taste.

“Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to—”

“You think you could make me do something I didn’t want to?” Tōru chuckles. Even as he says it, he’s quite sure the spiker could. “I’m just … trying to figure out how to word it. Never really had to describe it before, you know?”

“I mean, you don’t have to—”

“Will you relax? I want to.” And he does. “It’s supposed to be therapeutic or some shit, yeah? Let me have my therapy, Dr. Iwaizumi.”

That seems to shut up the tanned boy’s protests, which is good because Tōru can’t focus on both his thoughts and Iwaizumi’s voice. He’s never verbalized it before. It’s not out of fear, or anything like that. It’s more about privacy, and keeping his secrets when he feels he should.

“It hurts a lot,” he settles on. “Like my lungs are filled with water, even though I’m on dry land. I mean, there’s the coughing and the petals and the blood, but it’s more. It’s like something’s clawing at my throat, and I’m scared every time I swallow, I’m going to pierce something with a thorn and never be able to speak again.” He feels a little too cold in the shade. “It’s complicated. A bit like swallowing sand?”

Licking his lips, he forces himself through it. For the sake of therapy and finally saying the half-formed thoughts he’s never let himself linger on too much.

“You know a rollercoaster? Like, when you’re at the incline when the ride gets to that angle where you can’t see the tracks anymore but you _know_ they’re there cause you’ve been on the ride a thousand times before, and it’s going to fun, you _know_ it is, but there’s still a part of you that still thinks it’s going to break any second?Like, you’re about to go down and when the ride drops, your stomach bottoms out and there’s this instance of fear because yeah, you’re strapped in but maybe Newton has a personal vendetta against you and will use gravity to own your ass?

“Most stories will describe it that way. But it’s not. It’s an elevator, which sounds so much less climactic, but it is. It’s getting into an elevator and being fine, but then more people come in and suddenly you’re staring at that weight capacity and weighing that last burger you ate because what if the whole thing just gives? But you can’t get out anymore because it’s so fucking crowded, so you just kind of press yourself up against a wall and try to wait it out, but then it gets to the first floor it has to stop at, and there’s that split instant where the floor dips just a little lower and then comes back up and you’re thinking _what if it doesn’t go back up?_ It’s a nanosecond, and you’re just so sure in that moment with how crowded you all are, and how much you ate last night, _shit the whole thing is going to fall_ and then time stops. Right there. In that moment, cornered into an elevator you can’t escape, and it’s just done that scary little dip it does when it reaches a new floor, but it hasn’t risen back up yet, but the entire elevator shaft hasn’t collapse either, and you want out and you’re holding your breath, but you can’t forever. But you have to.

“God, that doesn’t sound so glamorous, does it? I’m not making any sense—”

“No, I get it,” says Iwaizumi. “It’s the nerves, right? Thinking you’re in over your head, and the uncertainty that comes with the dip. Because then you’re thinking about those terrible horror movies your mom told you not to watch but you did anyway and how scary things come in from the ventilation, and you can’t breathe, surrounded by strangers, and you can’t do anything but wait, and no one else seems to be freaking out, not like you, so you certainly can’t scream, and maybe it’s not likely it’ll happen, but you’ve heard the stories and you should’ve taken the stairs, but now because you made one wrong choice, you’re going to die in there. And there’s nothing you can do, but wait. And you know if you make it out alive, you’re never going into another elevator again.”

He doesn’t understand how it is that Iwaizumi is able to voice every racing thought in his mind so perfectly, so he nods and whispers “Exactly.”

“Did you know you liked them instantly?”

“What, like love at first sight?” Tōru snorts. “Oh no, I _hated_ them. But they grew on me. It was hard _not_ to like them. They just … they’re so _real_.” _Unlike me._ “I was envious at the beginning.

“It was kind of like the elevator again. You get in, and one person comes in and you’re like oh shit, I’m stuck on the next nine floors riding with this asshole. They were so _good_ at everything, and I just … I could never achieve something like that. I don’t have that talent. I work hard, but they don’t, and I can’t beat someone whose started so far ahead of me.

“But it’s like, I was in that elevator with them for a while, and then I started to notice things about them. One day, I saw them during my lunch break, just glaring at this vending machine, trying to get it to give them milk. They kicked it, basically fought with it, and I just stood there, watching. They seemed so _human_ suddenly, and as they shook the whole thing, I thought it would fall and crush them to death and realized I’d be kind of disappointed if it did. By the time I realized I had spent my entire lunch break watching them, I knew I was fucked. Something was happening.

“And I guess, while I was doing that, I didn’t notice the other people coming into the elevator, slowly taking up the room I needed to breathe, and by the time I realized it, the weight capacity may have been reached or not, because I can’t think straight and I’m stuck admiring everything about them, but freaking out while they remain cool as all hell, sipping on their damn won milk carton.”

“Drinking milk calmly in a metaphorical life or death battle with an elevator? That’s stubbornness at its height.”

“Yeah, he’s kind of an asshole like that.”

Tōru freezes.

_Shit …_

“I mean …”

He had been _so_ careful. He knows it’s weird. Boys marry girls and have 2.5 impossible children and then the cycle repeats. There’s something wrong with him, and now Iwaizumi knows. He won’t want to associate with someone like him—

“Go on.”

 _Why are you still here?_ The unspoken question lingers in the air.

Iwaizumi offers him a worm that’s crawled up his hand as they spoke as if to say _why wouldn’t I still be here?_

Tōru takes it and lets the worm climb up the bark of the tree. He doesn’t know if he’s just fucked over the ecosystem, but Iwaizumi isn’t leaving, and it feels _amazing_. “I … I didn’t fall in love with him then,” and it feels so _weird_ to say the right pronouns, almost feels as good as getting a service ace. He never realized how much it weighted on him until now. “There was just something about this look of satisfaction he got when he finally got what he wanted, and then the look of panic when he realized he was late, that was adorable and I … I started to pay more attention, I guess.

“I saw _him_ , without my angry filter, and I … I liked what I saw. I liked the way he double-knotted his shoes and smacked them against the floor to make sure the laces wouldn’t come loose, and he’d get really serious whenever he looked at a play board. I wasn’t ready for it. I didn’t _know_ … And then, well … a few months ago, this happened,” he punctuates his sentence by gesturing to his throat helplessly.

His whole chest hurts. The dull ache that’s always there rises up again, the way it does whenever he thinks about him. He’s kind of amazed he got so far without it happening, that his chest felt so open given the topic feels like a miracle but now it’s catching up to him. He can feel the stem making its way up his throat, as if punishing him for having these feelings. That, since he never said anything when he could, now he never can.

Blinking rapidly, he tries to push down the petals, but they tickle his throat and he coughs, a purple petal escaping his lips. It’s speckled in blood. Wiping his mouth with his arm, he wishes it could burn up in the acid of his stomach.

“It’s that guy, isn’t it?”

“What guy?” Tōru wants to smooth out the crease that’s forming on Iwaizumi’s forehead.

“The tall one. The one who hangs out with the orange haired shorty.”

“Is it that obvious?” Tōru asks, his eyes downcast.

“No,” and it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to please his friend about his obvious crush. “You’re just a bit … off, around him.”

“There’s no need to lie to me, Iwa-chan. I know you can see through me.”

“It’s not, I swear,” Iwaizumi insists. “I just noticed because … well, you’re hard _not_ to notice.”

Tōru chuckles hollowly. “Aw, does Iwa-chan like me?”

“Don’t say stupid things, Trashykawa.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll stop.”

They sit in comfortable silence, something Tōru hadn’t known was a thing, until Iwaizumi stands back up and dusts off his shorts. “C’mon, I’ve got this play I wanna try out.”

As he looks up at him, framed by the sunlight streaming in through the leaves, Oikawa Tōru realizes Iwaizumi Hajime is the first real friend he’s ever had.

He doesn’t know how he lived so long without him. He’s quite convinced he hasn’t.


	9. nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is 100% pathetic how adorable he finds Hinata’s belief that the professional university volleyball court smells like some over the counter pain relieving drugs.

_Just take it. Wait no, don’t do that. That’s creepy. Ask him first._

_Not like he’d let you._

Tobio glances at his and Hinata’s hands for the thousandth time in a minute. They’re walking so close together, it’s like they’re basically holding hands anyway, but that’s mostly due to the crowd in the gym. He jumps out of his skin every time their fingers brush against each other, but in the best way, and tries to hide the blush that’s the same violent shade as the spiker’s hair.

_It’s like a date._

But it’s not one.

Inviting Hinata to go and see Oikawa’s matches to keep on eye on the competition (or so he says) is _not_ romantic in any sense of the word, except his mind likes to think it is. It feels like he’s lying to him, bringing him places under false pretences as they find a place in the stands and Hinata takes a deep inhale.

“Smells like Salonpas!”

It is 100% pathetic how adorable he finds Hinata’s belief that the professional university volleyball court smells like some over the counter pain relieving drugs.

“Who’s playing this time?”

“Oikawa-san against Ushijima-san.” Below them, Ushijima is practicing his serve while Oikawa does some warm-up tosses. He doesn’t want to mention that he’s pencilled in every practice match Oikawa has just to find a valid(ish) excuse to hang out with Hinata outside of practice.

“Hmmm … Who do you think will win?”

“Ushijima.”

“You’re not even going to think about it?” _He’s so cute when he pouts. Wait, no bad._

“Do _you_ think Oikawa-san will win?”

Hinata’s brows furrow. “He _could_ , technically—”

“But how probable is it?”

“I mean I want to give Oikawa-san a chance, but at the same time …”

“Hmm?”

“It’s Ushijima.”

“Exactly.”

Tobio can do this. This is easy. Talking game strategy? Predicting wins? Piece of cake.

Pushing his fantasies about what he and Hinata could be is routine for him. And it’s not like friendship with the energetic middle blocker is any sort of consolation prize. It’s fulfilling and rewarding in its own sense.

Still, he can’t help wanting more. It’s why they call him a King, isn’t it?

“Think his knee’s better?”

“Dunno. Doesn’t matter though. Not when he’s up against Ushijima.”

He’s careful that his gazes never linger at the wrong time. He doesn’t know how he’d deal with it if Hinata knew he looked at him like he’s the sun in the sky.

He’s sixteen. He shouldn’t be this embarrassed from a crush.

Hinata makes it worth it though.

  
He knows it’s going to happen before Oikawa.

Once again, the world turns into slow motion as his chest lurches forward and he sways, the natural grace of his movement gone in an instant. He sees the moment he trips.

Instantly, Hajime’s on his feet, ducking underneath the net, and sliding across the floor. His legs burn, but he ignores it, places his hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, tries to get to hoist him up, but his legs aren’t working, and _dammit Shittykawa, fucking work with me here!_

“M’fine,” mumbles Oikawa. The arm he holds out to balance himself says otherwise.

“Bullshit,” he hisses in Oikawa’s ear as he wraps an arm around his neck. From the corner of his eye, he catches a certain dark haired audience member making their way towards them.

“Oikawa-san—”

“BACK THE FUCK OFF!” The growl comes from somewhere deep in his throat, his chest rumbling. He just barely stops himself from baring his teeth.

_Don’t act concerned, it’s your fucking fault._

It’s not. Not really, and it’s not fair to push all of this on him because he _doesn’t know_. He has no idea what kind of power he has over Oikawa, but somehow his ignorance makes things worse. Hajime can’t stop a disease that he can’t see, he’s not a medical professional, no matter what his program is. But he wants to help him so much, and being able to do nothing hurts him to his very core because _Oikawa is so good_ , and he doesn’t deserve this so the very illogical part of his brain that regulates his anger is quite sure if he can just break the young setter’s nose, that’ll somehow kill the plant that’s going to be the decorative flowers on Oikawa Tōru’s grave.

It’s not healthy to be this invested in someone who doesn’t feel the same.

He’s working on it.

But later.

Right now, he just wants to scream.

“Is Oikawa-san okay?”

Hajime has to bite his tongue to stop himself from snapping. “No, just leave him alone.” He can do this. He can act civil. It’s just hard to remember, given how he’s developed tunnel vision in the last five minutes.

Oikawa struggles against him, trying to stand on his own, but his knee gives out and he cringes. Tucking himself into the Hajime’s collarbone, Oikawa grips the fabric of his jersey tightly.

“Iwaizumi!” yells his couch. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

There are so many people, too much noise, not enough room to breathe, and the Ruiner of Oikawa’s life is looking so concerned with his little orange-haired date dragging behind, and so he yells some kind of comment to excuse himself and then he’s running out of the gym as quickly as he can, and Oikawa’s complaining while also trying to keep quiet, and the two of them stumble into the boys’ bathroom and Hajime lets Oikawa linger over the sink as he gulps in deep lungfuls of air.

“Figured it was our stop to get off,” he says and Oikawa lets out a weak laugh.

There’s a part of him that knew they’d be there, but his stomach still clenches when he sees the petals at the bottom of the white porcelain. There’s no hint of thorns, but Oikawa’s hair falls in his face and there are small droplets of blood on his chin, and on the petals. It’s tragically beautiful in so many ways, so much like the setter himself.

Is there really no other way to help him? Oikawa seems to have resigned himself to an early death, one of young and tragic beauty that no one but Hajime will know about. There must be another way to save him, to preserve the gorgeous flame that is the spirit of Oikawa Tōru.

He knows one. It’s very simple, actually.

A selfish part of him imagines an alternative route. A different way.

Because he just knows if Oikawa could somehow fall in love with Hajime instead, he’d be saved in an instant.


	10. ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re going to ask Oikawa out to coffee this weekend.”
> 
> “No.”
> 
>  
> 
> _The little piece of—_

Kageyama Tobio is a second year student at Karasuno High School on the island of Miyagi. He’s been the official setter since he joined in his first year, choosing Karasuno after being rejected by Shiratorizawa. Famous for his quick attack with middle blocker, Hinata Shōyō, the rumoured Second Little Giant, he’s a volleyball prodigy. The two make a formidable duo that run like a well-oiled machine, and their futures look bright, with the aforementioned volleyball prodigy already playing games scouts are attending, with word that the national team has their eyes on him.

Hajime is not impressed.

He’s even less impressed when the boy fumbles his jumps serve and gets hit on the head by his own volleyball upon Hajime demanding to speak to him.

His form is familiar. Too familiar.

“Who taught you that?”

“Hey, hold on!” says a voice, and then there’s a third year standing in front of him, pressing a hand against his chest and stopping him from entering farther into the gym. He looks fairly harmless, pretty unassuming. Kind of dull, honestly. “You can’t just barge into our practice. Who are you?”

“Eh, isn’t that the guy who was with Grand King-san?”

Hajime’s head jerks in the direction of Hinata Shōyō and growls.

“Ah! Ennoshita-san, help!”

_Ennoshita-san?_

“I’ll ask again, who are you?” says the third year who’s acting like a very irritating obstacle to his goal.

“I want to talk to Kageyama Tobio.”

“You’re not getting a single second with our setter until you answer my question,” says Ennoshita-san, his voice dropping low, his gaze narrowing. He radiates authority. He can see why others would respect him, depend on him.

“I just want to talk.”

“And I just want your name.”

“Listen, it’s not going to take long—”

“It can wait until _after_ practice—”

“Are you a spy?”

There’s a bald man who has taken off his shirt and is twirling it over his head, like he’s ready to go against a bull in Mexico.

“Tanaka-senpai, please put your shirt back on!” squeals a blonde, clutching a clipboard tightly to her chest.

Ennoshita-san closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “Tanaka, laps. Now.”

“Eh? But—”

“Changed my mind, diving laps. NOW.”

The shirtless man drops to the floor instantly.

Seems Ennoshita-san is running a circus.

“Listen, I just want to—”

“No, _you_ listen. Not until we’re finished.”

“When’s that?”

“Not now. So I’m going to kindly ask you to wait for a more appropriate time—“

“Wait, Ennoshita-san,” says Kageyama, taking a step forward.

Ennoshita bites his lip and tightens his grip on Hajime, before glancing over at his setter. “You know this guy?”

“Yes.” He turns to Hajime. “Is this about Oikawa-san?”

The name seems to spark some kind of fire in the gym, which was fairly calm until the mention of Oikawa. Hinata Shōyō’s basically trying to jump out of his own shoes with the amount of energy he has, and a short man with dyed hair looks ready to fight anyone, amongst the sea of confused faces of the first years.

“Kageyama—”

“I’ll speak to him now, Ennoshita-san, if I may.”

His head is held up just a little too high for Hajime’s liking. It’s like he thinks he’s in control of this situation or something.

Ennoshita lets him go with far more force than necessary, his eyes making every threat his mouth won’t. He faintly hears him say something about a break as Hajime and Kageyama leave the gym.

“Is Oikawa-san okay?”

It would be so much easier to hate Kageyama if he didn’t sound so genuinely worried.

It’s petty as all fuck, but he’s trying to find something to fault him for, from his short hair to the uniform that seems perfect on him. He’s not even sweating disgustingly. It makes sense though, of course someone who aims for perfection as hard as Oikawa Tōru would fall for someone who embodies that unattainable goal.

Well, he’s not totally perfect.

The idiot’s the reason Oikawa’s slowly dying, and that’s enough to fuel his hatred for a few hundred years.

“Hello?” the boy sounds stiff, like he’s finally figured out he’s not in control of the situation anymore.

But the thing is, Kageyama _is_ in control. Because Hajime can do as much research as he wants on hanahaki, but in the end, Kageyama’s the one who controls whether or not these next few months will be Oikawa’s last.

The right thing to do would be to give the setter a chance to like Oikawa back, but he can’t find it within him to think of Kageyama as worthy enough for such an honour. He’s already fucked it up once without knowing it. Fuck the three strike system, he’s calling infinite fouls.

“Um … so about Oikawa-san—”

“Don’t say his name.”

Hajime’s eyes widen as much as Kageyama’s.

_Where did that come from?_

“Sorry.” He’s confused. Hajime can’t blame him.

“Just … wait a minute.” The spiker tries to collect himself. He can’t just tell Kageyama what Oikawa’s going through. It’s not his secret to tell. So how does he explain that this idiot with the almost-bowl-cut is ruining the life of the one who likes to whisper “don’t be lasagna” in a terrible British accent that breathes life into Hajime’s lungs just by having terrible taste in romantic partners?

Kageyama waits.

He’s such an obedient kid.

“You’re going to ask Oikawa out to coffee this weekend.”

“No.”

_The little piece of—_

“What do you mean _no_?”

“I mean no.”

The kid’s doing a really bad job at convincing him not to kill him at this moment.

“It doesn’t have to be coffee. It can be whatever you want,” Hajime pleads. “Just … ask him out.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Not my type.”

Hajime should probably see a doctor about his twitching eye. He’ll make an appointment later.

“What _is_ your type, then?”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Not Oikawa-san.”

_SLAM!_

Hajime may be choking the boy with the force he’s using to press him up against the school wall, but it’s the insolent little shit’s own fault. Doesn’t he understand there’s a life on the line? Doesn’t he know about being selfless? Hajime can’t be the only one making sacrifices here.

“Do you have a problem with Oikawa?”

“No.” He sounds too calm. Too genuine.

He wishes he would squirm more. Fight against him. But Kageyama looks bored. “Why not take him out for coffee then? What’ve you got to lose?”

“Nothing, but I have nothing to gain.”

He hates how black and white the kid sees the world.

Hajime doesn’t want to beg. He _really_ doesn’t. But on the off chance that going out with Kageyama helps him, instead of choking him to death, if there’s even a sliver of a chance he can be cured, he’ll take it. He wants to give Oikawa every chance he can get. The world doesn’t deserve to lose someone like Oikawa Tōru because a snobby sixteen year old boy doesn’t know how good he’s got it.

“What do I have to do to get you to go out with him?”

Kageyama’s brow furrows. “If Oikawa-san wants to go out with me, why doesn’t he ask me himself?”

“Answer. The. Question.”

“Answer mine.”

“It doesn’t matter,—”

“It always matters.” Kageyama tilts his head. “You’re going behind his back, aren’t you?”

“Why does that matter?”

He’s got a look in his eyes, one Hajime doesn’t like. Like he’s seeing through him, decoding all his secrets. He’s looking at him like he _knows_ , and there’s nothing more infuriating than a stupid prodigy teenager seeing through all your defences.

“You keep telling me to go out with him, but is that really what you want?”

How _dare_ this kid try and make sense of him? How dare he pretend he knows him so well. He’s so full of himself, pretending he understands the stakes right now. He doesn’t even know the half of it.

Suddenly, it’s a lot easier to hate him.

“I wasn’t really doing anything this weekend, I _could_ go out with Oikawa-san,” says the setter contemplatively. His cold blue eyes meet Hajime’s suddenly, and it nearly freezes him. “But is that really what _you_ want?”

No. It’s the last thing he wants. He wants to capture all the obscure references the brunet makes and keep them to himself. He wants to watch him do that weird hand gesture thing he does whenever he hears a song he really likes and tries to repeat the rhythm through odd hand gestures. He wants to sit across from him at a table and talk about his day with Oikawa and make him whatever kind of tea he likes and buy him ironic cards from the store and call him names as he paints his nose with some stupid colour for when they repaint the furniture because it’s such an eyesore. He wants to talk in military code and call him obnoxious pet names just to watch him blush and scream he hates it while he secretly melts over each “honey” and “sweetheart”. He wants impossible things, the same way Oikawa Tōru keeps reaching for the stars no matter how out of reach they are.

But it’s not about what he wants.

“Yes.” It tastes like bile. “Yes, that’s what I want.”

“Okay. I’ll ask Oikawa-san out.”


	11. eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would really help if Hinata looked him in the eyes so he knew for sure he _wasn’t_ jealous so he can just get over this hopeless infatuation of his and go back to dreaming of volleyballs rather than orange-haired spikers.

“So … I got you a date.”

“Huh?”

Why must Oikawa make everything hard for him?

“I uh, got you a date with Kageyama.”

If he thought his eyes were dazzling before, it’s nothing compared to now, not as Oikawa’s irises _shine_ and twinkle like those stars he so desperately wants to touch. He doesn’t need to go into outer space to find the galaxy. He just needs to glance at a mirror every now and then. But he clenches his fists so he doesn’t do something stupid like reach out. He’s fine. It’s just a stupid crush.

“Did you really?”

Hajime scratches the back of his neck. “I er, yeah. He’ll be waiting at that coffee shop we went to. Tomorrow.”

Oikawa’s lips purse just the tiniest bit. “Why didn’t he ask me himself?”

“He was … nervous?”

Oikawa pulls his knees closer to himself. He’s sitting on Hajime’s bed like he _belongs_ there, which is a dangerous thought to have. His smell is going to soak into his sheets, which is quite possibly, the creepiest thought he’s ever had.

“What am I going to wear?”

The way he’s hugging his knees, it’s almost like he’s going to vomit. Hajime’ll grab a bucket if he needs to, if it’s flowers, or anything else.

A traitorous part of his mind warns him it’s much more than a crush. He shoos it away.

This was never about him. It’s about Oikawa.

What Oikawa wants, Oikawa will get. Even if Hajime has to die trying.

  
“You’re going out?”

Tobio wishes Hinata wouldn’t look at him like that. It’s not _his_ fault that Iwaizumi Hajime is a very pushy man. The setter can’t understand why he doesn’t put that aggressive passion towards courting Oikawa, like he actually wants to, but something’s clearly stopping the older man. It’s not really his place to judge, considering how guilty he feels about canceling a not-date with his not-boyfriend.

“It’s nothing, just like a quick something with Oikawa-san.”

“Why are you acting like you need my permission?”

_Ah right._

Sometimes, Tobio forgets that this relationship he has with Hinata is mostly in his head. The orange-haired boy makes it so easy to pretend it’s more that he just naturally falls into line like that, and then moments like these force him out of the beautifully constructed reality he’s made for his fragile teenage heart.

Agh, he sounds so sappy.

“I’m not. Just … don’t bug me tomorrow, okay?” He hates the way he phrases things, always overcompensating to hide what he’s feeling.

“Whatever.”

He really wishes Hinata would look at him. He won’t see anything there, at least, nothing he’s looking for. No sadness at his unavailability (though he can admit it’s cruel to want him to be sad about it), no affection or adoration or positive emotions beyond just _you’re an awesome setter who tosses to me and occasionally we watch movies when the whole team bonds_. Because everything else he reads into is just in his head.

It hurts to know.

But sometimes he has to face reality, andit would really help if Hinata looked him in the eyes so he knew for sure he _wasn’t_ jealous so he can just get over this hopeless infatuation of his and go back to dreaming of volleyballs rather than orange-haired spikers.

This is fine.

He’s not getting anything out of it, maybe to help Oikawa move on from whatever crush he’s got on Tobio, so he doesn’t suffer the way the younger setter is. He wouldn’t wish this on anyone, and that _includes_ his biggest rival.

  
“I’m not sure I look good …”

Oikawa’s breathtaking.

Dressed in a navy blue button-down and black skinny jeans that capture his assets _perfectly_ , his sneakers are casual, but also semi-formal. He wonders if he realizes his shirt is the same shade as Kageyama’s eyes. Maybe it was intentional.

“You do,” Hajime says, and it’s the only thing he _can_ say, when he’s choking up so much and can barely breathe at the sight of him.

“I—”

“You’ve torn apart the entire closet.” The setter’s room is honestly quite a mess, with clothes strewn everywhere. Oikawa’s turned around so many times in front of the mirror, it’s a wonder he’s not dizzy. He’s still graceful though, like a ballerina. Graceful, strong, beautiful, and smiling through the pain. “He’ll love it.”

Oikawa’s eyes light up, and Hajime’s chest twinges.

_This is good. This is for him._

The doorbell rings, and Oikawa fusses over his hair, running his fingers through it. “I don’t think I’m ready.”

“You’re ready. You’ll blow him away.” _Trust me. Don’t make me say anything else. I don’t know if I can._

Coughing slightly, he runs his fingers through Oikawa’s hair, fixing it slightly. Not that there’s anything to fix when you’re working with a canvas as beautiful as Oikawa Tōru.

“Knock him dead.”

The brunet nods, taking a deep breath. “Right. Alright. I’ve got this. I’m cool, and awesome, and fuck him if he doesn’t see that.”

“You forgot to mention you’re also a huge dork.”

“Iwa-chan!”

Hajime laughs. It’s a little breathless, but he doubts Oikawa notices. “Go on, he doesn’t strike me as a patient person.”

“Okay. Just … before I go, one last thing?”

“I told you, Trashykawa, you look _fine_ — oh.”

Oikawa’s scent surrounds him as he wraps his arms tightly around the wing spiker. He’s not sure if he’s hugging him, or holding Hajime up, because his knees are going to give out any minute, he’s absolutely sure. He just hopes they last long enough for him to leave. He holds him tightly back, maybe too tight for a friend, and pats him on the shoulder.

“Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it.”

Kageyama is waiting at the door, hands in his pockets, fidgeting like he’s thinking about something else. Hajime can’t punch the kid, but _God_ does he want to. The bastard doesn’t even realize how lucky he is, and he’s not even interested. What Hajime wouldn’t give to swap places with him.

He forces himself to smile as Oikawa leaves with him, waving even when the brunet can’t see him anymore.

Heading back inside Oikawa’s apartment, he grabs his stuff and is about to leave when his knees collapse underneath him.

Hajime’s chest hurts. Head pounding, it feels like something’s trying to force its way out of his throat. He doubles over and coughs, feeling the burn in his larynx.

_No. This can’t be happening. No, no, no nononono_

He coughs, and something falls into his palm.

A red petal.

He laughs. It’s dry, and hurts, and the red petal is darker in some areas he just _knows_ it’s his blood.

He’s not really surprised. He isn’t even angry or sad. Maybe he should be disappointed in himself (because there’s not a single doubt in his mind who put that flower there), falling for someone so unreachable. But it feels _good_.

It feels good to know that even though it’s clear Kageyama doesn’t love him the way he should be, someone _does_. That _he_ gets the honour of giving him that love, though he’ll never voice it, choking silently on petals laced with the wonderful poison known as love, it’s good to know that he’ll be loved the way he deserves before he goes.

_So troublesome, Shittykawa._

The taste of blood has never been so sweet.


	12. twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kageyama talks about Hinata Shōyō, the short middle blocker who gets stomachaches before games, like he hung the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd figure out how to input the beautiful art made by GarGoyl for this story, but uh ... I got lazy, and didn't do it yet. I will! I just finished my exams, but have summer school for a month soon, so ... and my D&D campaign ... yeah, anyway. I will get it in here, just ... give me a bit more time.

He’s on a date with Kageyama Tobio.

Tōru’s on a fucking date with _Kageyama Tobio._

His chest feels tight in that familiar way it’s been aching since that fateful day months ago, but it’s a good burn as he sits across from him. The younger boy is playing with his straw. He looks so much younger, drinking coffee with a _bendy straw_.

“So …”

“So …”

The air is thick with uncomfortableness.

This isn’t the way he wanted this to go, but he isn’t totally surprised. This _is_ Kageyama, after all. The boy who doesn’t know how to say “nice” without looking like he’s going to murder someone. It’s to be expected.

He finds himself missing those comfortable silences with Iwaizumi. But this is good. He can have a different kind of silence with Kageyama.

“I like someone else, Oikawa-san.”

Tōru blinks.

It hurts, but not as much as he thought it would. He folds his hands on his lap and grins. “Thank you for going out with me anyway.”

Kageyama nods stiffly.

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

While talking about it with Iwaizumi hadn’t _helped him_ , exactly, it had cleared the air, and he can tell just by looking at him he’s holding a lot in. It’s good to get it out, even just once. No one should have to carry the burden of love for so long so silently.

“Iwaizumi-kun said you like me,” says Kageyama. “Do you really want me to talk about them with you?”

“I _do_ like you, Tobio-kun,” says Tōru. He finds he means it, but not in the way he thought he would when he finally said it aloud. “I want you to be happy. So tell me about the one who makes you happy.”

So he does.

 **  
** “What are you doing here?”

It’s weird to see the middle blocker with so little energy, so Tadashi pulls up a seat next to the redhead. He’s got time until he’s got to meet Tsuki for their weekly documentary night. The documentary night Tadashi pretends means nothing more than two friends bonding after tireless practices all week.

“Kageyama’s got a date.”

Tadashi’s eyebrows raise into his hairline. “Eh?”

“I know!”

The setter’s on a date? _Without_ Hinata? That doesn’t sound right.

“Oh? With who?”

“Oikawa!”

This is getting weirder and weirder. “You sure it’s a date?”

Hinata runs his fingers through his hair, clumping it aggressively enough to pull it out from the roots. “I mean, he tried to make it sound like nothing, but I know it’s something. He and Oikawa have always had … _history_.” He spits out the word like it’s poison.

This doesn’t make any sense. Tsuki’s always going on about how nauseatingly in love the freak duo is, and here he is, saying it’s nothing? That they _aren’t_ something? He wants to shake him, because at least Kageyama _notices him_ , meanwhile Tadashi strays behind Tsuki and hopes with everything in his being that _somehow_ , in between the music in his ears and his hunched shoulders he’ll hear even a sliver of what Tadashi says on the walk home.

Silence falls between them.

Though Tsuki can’t seem to stand Hinata, Tadashi doesn’t mind him. He’s super energetic, which tires him out quickly, but he’s not a _bad_ guy. He feels bad for him, that this is happening. Out of the two of them, at least _one_ should get what they want. _Who_ they want.

Luck says it certainly won’t be Tadashi, who has been hopelessly gone for the blond for who knows how long. It’s hard to tell when it started, only that one day he woke up and he just _knew_ the fact that had existed since the dawn of time.

His phone vibrates.

_March of the Penguins or Saving Mr. Banks?_

Hmm, he’s kind of in a Morgan Freeman mood, so he tells Tsuki his choice.

“That Stingyshima?”

Tadashi hides his phone in his lap. “Er, yeah.”

“Lucky! At least he has time for you.”

Tadashi rolls his eyes. If only Hinata knew what their friendship was _really_ like. Full of unsaid words and pausing to hold his breath when they listen to a love song on Tsuki’s phone that makes him think of the boy next to him. It’s one he wouldn’t trade for the world, but it’s hard some days.

“Eh, we make time for each other.” As in, Tadashi hesitates to make plans with anyone else in case Tsuki calls him last minute about something and they have at least three hours outside of school for each other penciled into their unofficial friendship calendar. “You going to be alright?”

“Alright is relative,” says Hinata.

_Wow, he’s really mopey._

“I’m sure it’s not a serious date or anything.” Tadashi doesn’t know how to comfort people, though he’s been told he has a comforting face. Tsuki’s never really needed comfort before and doesn’t like physical contact, so if the way he pats Hinata’s shoulder is awkward, he’ll blame it on that. “I’ve gotta get going though. Eat something, okay? We’ve got a match in a few days.”

“It’s not like my stupid feelings are going to affect the way I play on the court!”

“I know,” says Tadashi. “Just … look after yourself, okay?”

Hinata nods, head falling back onto the table.

When Tadashi leaves, he hears a vague mumbling about Bakayama.

He’s got his own idiot to deal with.

  
Kageyama talks about Hinata Shōyō, the short middle blocker who gets stomachaches before games, like he hung the stars.

How the redhead makes his stomach flip whenever he gets a text from him, about the effort he puts in when trying to hold eye-contact, despite hating it. He doesn’t think it’s getting across, thinks he might just be scaring the volleyball player. It’s cute. It’s sincere. It’s _pure_ , and Tōru’s throat aches dully, just the slightest bit as he swallows that familiar lump.

It doesn’t hurt that much to hear about all of this, so that must mean he’s getting over him, _finally_. He must be getting better. He won’t have to die, Takeru won’t be without an uncle, and he has more time to hang out with Iwaizumi.

All his future plans he shoved away when the petals started tickling his throat are coming back to him now, his bucket list that included stuff like _play in the Olympics_ , and _catch every regional Pokémon_ are a possibility now. He grins, and he realizes it has nothing to do with what Kageyama is saying and everything to do with how _light_ he feels after so many months of pain.

He didn’t even realize how much it was weighing him down until Kageyama bows his head and apologizes for talking the entire time about his teammate, and Tōru grins and holds out a hand.

“No problem. See you on the court, Tobio-kun.”

Kageyama blinks. “You too, Oikawa-san.”

As Tōru makes his way home, he can’t help being quite proud of himself. He’s handling Kageyama’s rejection quite nicely, if he may say so himself. He feels _free_ for the first time, no longer chained by the vines of his feelings. No more sore throats for him after tonight.

It’ll take some time, but it’ll dull down. He’ll stop leaning over toilet bowls and holding his stomach, his mouth will stop feeling full of cotton, his tongue will stop tasting like blood. He can’t wait to taste his ordinary _saliva_ , which sounds so _dumb_ , but it means so much to him now, he’s practically skipping as he gets to his door.

Putting his key in the lock, he slams the door shut and lets out a deep breath. He inhales, and grins. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. There’s a small ache, which is a small price to pay considering he just cured himself of his feelings and a terminal illness.

He’ll have to thank Iwaizumi for this, whether or not he intended on this being the outcome—

_Oh no._

Tōru’s chest constricts.

This is supposed to be _over_ , this can’t possibly be happening. Is he in denial? Is it a reflex? He goes the familiar route to the bathroom, leans over the toilet and tries to breathe the way he just did. It doesn’t work.

There’s the familiar tickle in his throat, and he tries in vain once more to shove it down. Maybe he got a cold. It’s that time of year anyway. Yeah, it’s that. It has to be that, because the alternative is too much for him to bear at the moment and—

It’s not that.

There’s a bloody petal floating in the water.

It’s such a familiar sight, it’s almost comforting, which sounds ridiculous.

But instead of purple petals, it’s red.

His stomach drops out.

_Oh shit._

Oikawa Tōru may be over Kageyama Tobio, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still in love.

Looking at the botany before him, he knows what it is.

Amaryllis.

He knows just who its for too.

Tōru smiles.

Seems his luck _is_ turning around.


	13. thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hajime’s not sure what the rules are about the improbable disease involving beautiful flowers that grow in his lungs as punishment for falling in love with a man who is also so desperately in love, he’s on the same boat as him, but for another person.

Oikawa’s oddly happy. Well, not oddly. He’s just gone on a date with the man of his dreams. The man he’s dying for. While Hajime dies for _him_ slowly.

He doesn’t know _how_ Oikawa hid it, or controlled it because even _thinking_ the setter’s name has his chest squeezing painfully. Maybe it’s just that Oikawa’s love wasn’t as strong as this.

He knows that’s a lie. Oikawa’s _dying_ with his love for the Karasuno setter.

Hajime’s not sure what the rules are about the improbable disease involving beautiful flowers that grow in his lungs as punishment for falling in love with a man who is also so desperately in love, he’s on the same boat as him, but for another person.

Within a week of having hanahaki, he knows the following things:

  * Hearing Oikawa’s voice makes his throat itch
  * Getting a text from the setter makes him cough
  * Thinking about the man for an extended period of time produces bloody petals
  * It’s like he’s drowning. Constantly.



He’s terrified seeing him in person may be the last inhale he’ll ever take, so he stays away.

Oikawa undoubtably knows he’s avoiding him, because he calls him the day after his date and asks to meet with him and Hajime has to tell him no. It hurts almost as much as the thorns making their way up his throat.

He sounded happy, though. That’s good. One of the two of them deserves happiness, and he’s glad it’s Oikawa.

Not being around Oikawa doesn’t stop the thoughts, or the petals. This is not the sort of thing you can shove under the rug and ignore until it goes away. It’s unfair, especially because Oikawa shared it with him, but he can’t stand the thought of Oikawa’s refusal.

It’d be nice, sympathetic, since he knows the pain he’s experiencing, but there’s no way he’d reciprocate. There’s a chance he’d say yes, if only to try and ease Hajime’s pain, but he’s not sure whether that’d hurt more or less.

His teammates say his voice is getting hoarse. It’s why he doesn’t call him that much anymore.

Hajime does his own research. He’s not so stupid as to rely entirely on Oikawa’s word of mouth about the disease. It feels weird to type “puking flowers” into the search bar, but he’s _“feeling lucky”_ and reads several articles.

The basics are these:

  * Hanahaki develops when the patient (Hajime) falls deeply in love with someone who does not feel the same (Oikawa). No schoolyard crush would ever result in something like this. Falling for someone’s very _soul_ and being, well, that’ll do it.
  * Flowers begin to grow inside the body of the patient, with the flowers usually representing some aspect of the person the patient feels for
  * It’s not the flowers themselves that will kill the patient, but the stems and roots that take up space inside their intestines
  * It can be cured by surgery, but the surgery removes all feelings of love felt towards the source of the hanahaki. There’s not much depth about it, as not many have taken the option, so it’s unclear whether the feelings disappear completely and they can have a happy friendship, or if _any and all_ feelings go away once the surgery is complete.
  * Without the surgery, the patient has somewhere between 6 to 18 months to live, changing depending on how much sunlight and water they drink, unknowingly nurturing the plant inside of them.



The surgery is not an option. He doesn’t have the money, which he supposes is one of the reasons others don’t take it, but even more so, despite the pain, he cannot bring himself to regret it.

He looks up the flowers and smiles bitterly once he finds a match.

Gladiolus.

_Sometimes called sword flowers, or sword lilies due to their sword-like shape of both the foliage and the flower spike. The flower spire is said to pierce the heart of the recipient with love._

_Symbolizing honour, remembrance, strength of character, faithfulness, sincerity and integrity, infatuation and tenacity._

It’s very fitting.

And it’s why he can’t give it up, can’t imagine replacing the sword in his throat.

Because Oikawa Tōru deserves to be loved to death.

He loves fully and wholeheartedly, with so much passion that he throws himself into everything head-first. With a sharp tongue that betrays his “pretty boy” appearance, his strength is immeasurable in will and physical ordeals. Hajime imagines being loved by him would be all encompassing. Deep, genuine, and perhaps a little scary, with so much devotion you could drown in it. He’s got a fire in his eyes that burns Hajime up, and unspoken insecurities that he wants to soothe.

Being loved by Oikawa Tōru would be an honour.

But it’s not him Oikawa wants.

Hajime can’t give up his love for this man though, because he sees someone who deserves a love so great and grand, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He sees a man who wouldn’t accept such love because he can’t understand why someone would feel that way towards him.

Hajime can see the dullness in his eyes, hear the forced laughter. He notices how his lips curl into a smirk for all to see, sees the self-deprecation on display that no one else notices because Oikawa Tōru is nothing if not an actor. He sees the cracks in the façade, sees when he’s caving in. When he needs to get off the elevator even as he presses himself further into the farthest corner from the exit.

Hajime can’t get the surgery because Oikawa Tōru deserves to be loved so much it hurts.

He remembers hearing him throw up those flowers in the back of the store. Hiding, as if Hajime doesn’t know. It sounds painful, like the roots have dug into his ribcage and settled. He’s surrendered everything to Kageyama, and it’s a beautiful kind of tragedy, the kind the Greeks would’ve written a thousand poems about and drawn on countless vases, something to rival the story of Orpheus. He’s a modern-day Homeric hero, and no one gets to witness his beautiful fall.

He’s selfish because sometimes he thinks about loving Oikawa Tōru. Thinks about what he’d do if given the chance.

He’d love him so thoroughly, the man wouldn’t know what hit him. They’d be equals, and he would compliment him when he needed to hear it, they’d complement each other. He’d kiss him without reason, and pretend to sleep to say in bed longer with him. They’d function independently, but always be better together, and they’d fight over the morning crossword together.

Hajime pulls himself out of that mainframe before he has enough petals to start his own flower shop.

God, he’s pathetic.

Crush on a man you barely know.

Find out he’s in love with someone else, to the point that he’s dying.

Fall in love with him anyway, to the point that _you’re_ dying.

The good news is he’ll only have to live with his pathetic self a little longer.

He doesn’t think he can avoid Oikawa until then, and he doesn’t want to, but he takes a week to himself. To brace himself for this last few months alive, vowing to spend it silently loving the _shit_ out of the man who deserves it the most.

  
Tōru really wishes Hajime would pick up his phone. He’s got so much he wants to say, and so much he wants to do, and now that he’s turned his attention elsewhere, he feels like he _can_ do those things.

Who else could be the source of his flowers than Hajime?

Being in love with Kageyama was so different from this.

Kageyama was a competition, a fight against each other that he realizes now was all in his head. Being in love with the younger setter was bittersweet, something unreachable. It was craving his attention just to show off, until it turned into wanting to impress him, even though he never felt like enough. It was always “look at me! See me! Pay attention to me! Please, won’t you please, please tell me I’m worth your time?”.

Loving Iwaizumi Hajime is _nothing_ like that. Being in love with Iwaizumi Hajime feels like ruling a kingdom together, side by side.

Tōru never feels less than he is with him. He doesn’t have the urge to compare, to point out his shortcomings to Iwaizumi’s. He doesn’t have to be better, doesn’t have to do outrageous things to get his attention, because Hajime sees him. Has always seen him.

He sees now his love for Kageyama was toxic. It was unbalanced, their fictional relationship he had been hoping for even more so. Tōru would never feel adequate, never _enough_ , would always need to prove himself and be better, do better, become _worthy._

Iwaizumi sees the good and the bad, and he’s still here. When Tōru gets moody, or so hungry he eats like an animal, or starts listing proof of UFO existence, sure, Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but he’s never disinterested. It’s like Tōru _matters_ , and it fills him with something he can’t describe other than _good_ , because that’s what it is. So, _so good to finally be enough_ as he is.

He wants to scream it, but he keeps it in. He wants to tell him to his face, and he wants it to be perfect. The flowers will be gone, and Tōru will finally be able to breathe again, and he’s ready to take the next step off the cliff to fall for him beyond the flowers in his lungs. It doesn’t feel that scary anymore, not when he knows Iwaizumi will catch him. When he knows it won’t be a fall so much as it’ll be a _flight._

Except Iwaizumi’s ignoring him.

Tōru’s stomach starts sinking slowly, so slowly because that stupid spark of hope is persistently keeping him afloat despite _all reason_ , because if he felt inadequate to his _junior_ , how could he ever be equal to someone his own age?

He waits, wants to tell him, just to get it out. To get _closure_. He knows where he went wrong the first time around, thinking he could suffer in silence.

So when Iwaizumi _finally_ agrees to hang out two weeks later, he plans to tell him everything. Spill it out, get his closure, maybe gradually get over his feelings like a normal person who isn’t choking on vines every other Tuesday.

They play volleyball, and Iwaizumi’s oddly quiet the whole time. His breathing is coming out heavier, so Tōru suggests they take a break.

They sit underneath a tree for shade, and he remembers sitting here telling him about Kageyama. And now he’s come full circle to tell him about himself.

“Iwa-chan, I—”

Iwaizumi coughs and Tōru’s world stops.

There’s a petal in his hand.

Tōru wants to cry.

And it should be because the one he loves is suffering. Because someone is so _blind_ as not to love him as fully as Tōru does. But it’s not. Because he’s selfish and all he can think is:

_Idiot._

Of course Iwaizumi likes someone.

Guess it’s his turn to be the supportive friend.

“Who is it?”

Iwaizumi won’t meet his eyes.

He probably knows. Knows about Tōru’s feelings, and as someone who now shares that pain, doesn’t want to make him hurt anymore. He’s good like that. He won’t like the answer, he knows, and yet his heart speeds up. Wishes for it. Hopes for it. Prays for it, despite his lacklustre belief in deities.

“It’s uh …” Iwaizumi coughs. Tōru’s throat aches. “Someone from er, middle school.”

Tōru plasters on a fake smile, and prays just this once, Iwaizumi won’t call him out on it.

 _You knew it wouldn’t be you. Why would it be you? Because he enjoys your company? That isn’t grounds for falling in love._ The stems are making their way up his throat, and he’s suffocating and it’s too much and—

He won’t cry. He _can’t_ cry. There’s a sting behind his eyelids, but he’s never cried over Kageyama. Screamed yes, whined and bitched and moaned and moped, 100%, but he’s never cried. Maybe because he knew it was impossible. If he didn’t cry over Kageyama, he won’t cry over Iwaizumi.

But it’s hard to push them down and pretend he’s okay. Especially since he foolishly let himself think … let himself believe …

He’s an idiot.

An idiot who never learns.

Iwaizumi notices the way his face is scrunching up, so he says something about the water going down the wrong pipe. He looks concerned, and it hurts. Hurts in a good way, a kind of sweet yet torturous way.

He’s going to die soon, he just knows it. That he’s stayed alive this long is a miracle, and now he’s had _double hanahaki_ , because whoever lives in the clouds must really hate him, but he’ll spend the time he has left encouraging Iwaizumi to go for the one he wants.

Oikawa Tōru’s selfishness ends here.

He’s all too familiar with the pain, and though he sickeningly wishes he were the reason Iwaizumi can’t breathe, he knows that’s not the case, and _one_ of them deserves happiness.

“What are they like?”

_Idiot, don’t torture yourself._

But he wants to know. He _needs_ to know who it is that Iwaizumi Hajime has decided is worthy of his love to the point he’s dying.

“They’re …” Iwaizumi inhales as deeply as one can given they’re choking constantly. “They’re beautiful.”

_I could be beautiful. I could be so beautiful for you._

“They’re … smart. Really smart.”

_I can learn. I can study. I could do that too. I was in the honour role. I could be smart. I could be smarter._

“Really talented too. In lots of ways. And they’ve got these weird habits, but I kind of like them.”

Tōru clears his throat. It doesn’t help. “You should tell them.”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “Can’t do that.”

_No,_ **_I_ ** _can’t do that. I don’t stand a chance against this person, who must be stupid not to want you._

“Why not? You love them, don’t you?” He prays his voice doesn’t shake.

“It’s complicated …”

“Why?”

“They wouldn’t want me.”

_I want you. I want you_ **_so much_ ** _. Forget about them. Please be with me. I’ll try so hard. I’ll be perfect. Look at me, want me, even for a week, a day. I can make you like me. I’m sure I can. I’ll make you forget all about them. Love me instead. I’ll love you so much better, I_ **_do_ ** _love you so much better. There’ll be no pain. It’ll be perfect._ **_We’ll_ ** _be perfect._

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They’re … special.”

_They’re stupid._ **_You’re_ ** _special._

“I really think you should go for it.

_One of us has to get happiness._

“What about you?”

“W-what about me?”

_He knows._

“How’d it go with Kageyama?”

“Good.” Tōru can’t just tell him his love for his _kouhai_ has shifted. “It was good.”

“So they’re gone?” He’s smiling, so brightly, like the clouds have cleared, but there’s something in his eyes that hides pain.

Tōru coughs lightly. “Er, no. It’s er, it’s better though. Better this way.”

“With you slowly dying?”

“At least I’ll never know a world without them.”

“But you can’t die. What would I do if you died?” asks Iwaizumi, and he looks so confused and conflicted. Uncertain.

“Live?” Iwaizumi isn’t making any sense. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“I …”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Tōru’s heart stutters. He wants to reach out, to caress the side of his face, pull him in close and just taste his lips, taste those words that sound so genuine coming from his lips, they fill him up and make the pang in his chest worth it when he sees the petals clenched in Iwaizumi’s fist.

Those words aren’t for him.

“Yeah. Just like that.” He can’t breathe, so he stands up and wants to make a graceful exit but it looks more abrupt than anything. “Say it like that, and they’ll be yours.”

_I’m yours._

“Would it work on you?” It’s so soft, Tōru almost doesn’t hear it.

Breathing in deeply, the setter braces himself. Giving Iwaizumi a fake smirk, he says “It’s not about me, stupid Iwa-chan.”

He leaves.

He can’t. Not now, not ever.

Being selfless is hard.

Knowing he’ll never hear those words from Iwaizumi Hajime’s mouth again, that he was never meant to hear such words ever, that they’ll never mean as much to him as they do to Tōru. That he’s the rehearsal, but never the real thing.

It’s just a few more weeks.

A few more weeks before Oikawa Tōru chokes on the sweet flowers that represent his love for Iwaizumi Hajime, the man he cannot have.


	14. fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He listens to Tsukishima talk about the inaccuracies of the more recent _Jurassic Park_ movies.

When Tadashi is eight, he meets a boy with hair the colour of the sun.

It does not take long for him to realize the boy is as cold as the moon.

On nights like these, when he finds himself atop the Tsukishima roof, he doesn’t mind his small insignificance in the face of all that’s out there because Tsukishima Kei, who is sure to play a large role in the universe, has decided to bask in the moonlight by his side.

There’s a meteor shower tonight, and maybe Tadashi’s been watching too many romcoms from the 80s, because even though he knows its stupid and pointless, and wishing on stars only works for old men who make boys out of wood, he tilts his head to the sky and closes his eyes.

His throat constricts as he dares to wish for that which he knows is impossible.

After he’s done, he fights down the fiercely pigmented petals that tickle his throat, and chances a glance to his best friend of nearly a decade.

He’s looking right back.

Instantly, he turns his head away.

“What’d you wish for?”

 _You_.

He doesn’t say it. Partly because he’s scared, partly because he doesn’t think his throat could handle it, partly because to voice something he’s been holding onto for so long would be like losing himself.

“If I say, it won’t come true.” It’s a weak excuse, but Tadashi has never claimed to be strong. “What about you?”

“Hmph, shooting stars are for babies.”

It’s not like he was expecting a different answer, but a stone still falls to the pits of his stomach.

Tadashi isn’t sure when the admiration turned into something more, but the really big turn must’ve been two months ago, when the first of the treacherous flowers began to bloom. As Tsukishima shifts the conversation topic to the latest documentary he saw, he wonders how he never realized it sooner.

Tsukishima Kei may not be the sun. He may not be that which gives life to all that breathes on Earth. He is not what pulled Icarus in, and melted his wings. But he is very much the moon. The shining light in the darkness of night, that which reigns in the tides, that which keeps the world in balance. He is calm, and he is serene. He is not one that demands sacrifice, he is one that deserves appreciation.

He is strong, and he is silent. He has unreadable eyes and fingers that move with grace and calm. He is unmistakably beautiful in the eerie silence that befalls the Earth when the sun is gone.

And Tadashi is hopeless against him.

There is no regret, even as he knows his days are numbered, as he listens to Tsukishima talk about the inaccuracies of the more recent _Jurassic Park_ movies.

He puts his chin on his knees, and tries to keep the love out of his eyes and the petals in his throat as he basks in the moonlight of that which is named Tsukishima Kei.

  
Kei does not listen to music on his way to school. This is a fact Yamaguchi does not know.

He doesn’t know that the blond listens to him ramble about nearly everything that’s passed his mind, fleeting thoughts about the news, or the latest chapter he read in _Shounen_. He doesn’t know that Kei spends the entire time tapping his finger against his thigh in the rhythm of his own heartbeat to keep up the pretence of listening to music. He doesn’t know that Kei hears _everything_.

He likes these moments. He _cherishes_ these moments, when it’s just him and Yamaguchi, and the outside world can’t touch them. When the insecurities that plague Yamaguchi cannot reach them here, where time slows down as they live in the moment.

“Er … Tsuki?”

Oh. This happens occasionally.

Sometimes Yamaguchi’s ramblings turn into confessions. Stupid confessions, but confessions all the same. Stuff about how, someone was mean to him the other day (he grits his teeth and pretends not to hear), or how he forgot to do his homework (he thinks of all the sleep he must be missing).

“I … see, there’s this … person, I like.”

_Keep walking._

“And they’re really great, you see? And I … erm, I’m thinking of telling them. Sometime. Soon, maybe.”

_Who is it?_

He has to fight down the question. He counts the rocks in the road. Keeps his pace steady. Keeps his face neutral. Tries to keep his heart rate normal.

“I dunno … it’s probably stupid.”

He fails.

“Anyway I just thought … you should know. Since … well, since it’s …”

His heart lumps in his throat. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s something else. There’s a weird taste on his tongue, and he thinks back to last night on the rooftop, like every Goddamn cliché scene ever written, and the way Yamaguchi had looked in the moonlight and his stomach lurches.

“It’s something a best friend should know,” Yamaguchi finishes and Kei trips, stumbling, an action mirrored in his too-small chest.

_What were you hoping he’d say, hmm? That he’d say “it’s you”? It’s probably Akiteru. Akiteru always was the better one of us._

Kei can feel Yamaguchi’s hand on his arm, like it’s burning through his clothes. He jerks his head to the side, and pushes him off. He can’t do this right now.

“Sorry, Tsuki.”

_No, I’m sorry. Sorry I fucked up. Sorry I’m like this. Sorry this isn’t enough. Sorry I’m selfish._

He says none of these things. Instead, he swallows his disappointment and counts down the days he has left with Yamaguchi before the one he likes finally takes notice, and Kei is left on his own.

He was always meant to be alone.

The Man on the Moon has no friends.

Not even the stars will come out to play.


	15. author's note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Er, hi.

I'm going to delete this later, but basically, I'm having a serious mental health issue, and my backlog of pre-written chapters has run out, so I'm going to take a break until I'm able to produce more chapters.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on my [Tumblr](https://setkia.tumblr.com/)!  
> Or e-mail me setkia.writer@gmail.com!
> 
> I love talking to readers, seriously! Aside from time differences causing a delay, I'll always reply!


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